•' 


SOCIAL  TRAGEDIES 

AND 

OTHER    POEMS 


BY 
\C     v.  f^rf" 

O     '<^ 

J.    W.    SCHOLL 


AUTHOR   OF 

THE  LIGHT-BEARER  OF  LIBERTY. 


BOSTON  : 

EASTERN  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 
6 I   COURT  STREET 


Copyrighted    1 900, 

by 
J.  W.  SCROLL. 


CONTENTS. 

V 

PAGE 

PREFACE. 
DEDICATION. 

SOCIAL  TRAGEDIES. 

MAUD'S  WEDDING  DAY i 

THE  INVALID 6 

AGNES  LILIENKRON,  THE  FORSAKEN       .     .  13 

HERMANN  SAMSSEL ig 

THE  BASTARD  OF  OLD  SIR  HUGHS     ...  25 

VIRGINIUS 33 

THE  WEDDING  ANNIVERSARY 38 

WWW 

THE  TUNKER  MAIDEN.   A  MEMORIAL  DAY 

PIECE 43 

THE  POET'S  PROTHALAMION 54 

I  LOVE  THEE 100 

MY  OWN  WEE  WINSOME  DEARIE      .     .     .  103 

MESSAGE  OF  PRESSED  FLOWERS    .     .     .     .  106 

WHITHER  ? m 

THY  HEAVEN 112 

I  WOULD  THAT  MY  LlPS  COULD  UTTER  .     .  114 

THY  BREASTS  ARE  TWIN  WHITE  LILIES      .  115 

REST,  REST  THEE,  SAD  HEART    .     .     .     .  116 

To  A  RISING  STAR     ...  118 


CONTENTS. 

pArts 

ESTRANGEMENT      120 

OE'R  Mr  HEART  IN  ITS  DREAMING    .     .     .  123 

LOVE  AND  WINE 126 

MY  MUSE 127 

LIGHT  OF  MY  LIFE 128 

A  HANDFUL  OF  SONNETS. 

ALL  IN  ALL 131 

GREETING 132 

BETROTHAL 133 

LINCOLN  PARK,  STORM 134 

SEPARATION 137 

IN  THE  SHADOWS  .     .     .     , 138 

BEYOND  THE  SHADOWS 139 

A  GOLDEN  DAY     .........  140 

TIME  MARKS  HER  FLIGHT 141 

MY  BARD 142 


PREFACE. 


EVERY  life  has  multiform  activities,  and 
when  the  artistic  sense  is  present,  em 
bodies  itself  in  different  ways. 

A  careless  judge  will  be  carried  away  by  one 
single  embodiment,  and  consider  the  whole,  a 
monotonous  enlargement  of  that  single  part. 
The  larger-minded  reader  will  see  that  there  is 
unity  which  binds  all  the  embodiments  together, 
and  that  that  unity  is  not  an  abstraction,  but 
a  concrete  human  life,  which,  in  its  constant 
interplay  with  environment,  expresses  itself, 
always  partially,  it  is  true,  but  always  genuinely. 

No  writer  ever  gives  a  complete  rendition  of 
his  soul.  Not  even  when  his  work  is  done  and 
all  the  broken  lights  of  his  life  are  gathered 
into  one  full  beam.  There  is  always  an  inex 
pressible  residue  of  the  personality  which  per 
ishes  from  the  world. 

Emotional  life  as  well  as  intellectual  life  has 
its  tropics.  There  may  be  wide  latitudes  be 
tween  the  extreme  positions  of  thought  and 
feeling  in  a  single  life  at  different  times.  The 
greater  the  life,  the  wider  the  range.  A  narrow 
consistency  is  possible  only  in  a  barren  life. 

The  contents  of  this  little  volume  grew  up 
side  by  side  with  the  "Light-Bearer  of  Liberty" 
and  covers  the  same  period  of  activity.  It 
claims  attention  only  so  far  as  it  finds  echoes 
in  the  hearts  of  fellow  men,  who  are  yearning 
for  an  ideal  life,  which  shall  make  possible  the 
embodiment  of  the  ideal. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


TO 

MY   WIFE, 
THE  SHARER  AND  INSPIRER 

OF 

MY   LITERARY   LABORS, 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME 

IS  DEDICATED. 


SOCIAL  TRAGEDIES. 


MAUD'S  WEDDING  DAY. 
¥ 

COME  hither  a  little,  Maud,  while  the  shad 
ows  creep  this  way, 

Come  sit  by  my  side  and  talk,  for  the  morrow's 
your  wedding  day, 

And  a  younger  hand  than  mine,  Dear,  will  lead 

you  from  my  side, 
And  younger  lips  than  mine,  Dear,  will  claim 

you  a  willing  bride, 

And  you'll  leave  your  dear  old  home,  and  my 

old  loving  heart, — 
I've  lived  for  you  forty  years,  and  loved  you 

from  the  start !  — 

What !  You're  not  so  old  !  But  it's  true, 
though  you,  Maud,  can't  understand 

How  your  mother  and  I  were  young  once,  and 
thought  and  yearned  and  planned, 

i 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


And  loved  you  all  together,  before  our  mar 
riage  morn, 

Full  twenty  years  and  more  before  you,  Maud, 
were  born. 

For  you  were  the  last,   the  pet  and   pride  of 

mother  and  me, 
And  we  kept  you  the  baby  still,  as  long  as  that 

could  be. 

But  you  wouldn't  stay  little  at  all,  in  spite  of 

our  love  and  care, 
And  your  dresses  were  laid  aside,   Maud,   too 

small  for  you  to  wear. 

And   I'd  have  been  jealous  of   all  the    thieving 

years  could  do, 
But  they  left  you  your  mother's  eyes  of  tender- 

est  sunniest  blue. 

There  were  other  children,  Maud,  and  we  loved 
them  dearly,  too. 

But  still,  as  each  babe  could  talk,  another  be 
gan  to  coo, 

And  life  grew  stronger  and  prouder,  my  Dar 
ling,  for  mother  and  me, 

And  we  shared  in  their  work  and  study,  and 
toiled  for  them  cheerily. 


MAUD'S    WEDDING    DAY. 


But  I  was  vexed,  sometimes,  when  the  world 
wouldn't  seem  to  go  right, 

And  I  said  some  things,  my  child,  I'd  be  glad 
to  recall  tonight, 

For  my  thoughts  go  out  to  two  little  mounds  in 

Sunnyside, 
Where    the    first    of   our    darling    children  are 

sleeping  side  by  side, 

And  I  wonder,  if  they  had  lived,  if  they'd  try 
to  break  my  heart 

As  the  boy  that  was  spared  to  me  ! — The  fool 
ish  tears  will  start 

When   I   talk  of  our  only  son,  that  married  out 

of  my  life, 
And  deserted  mother  and  me,  for  a  cold  and 

heartless  wife, 

That  spoiled  in  a  year  or  two,  with  her  prim 
society  ways, 

The  generous  heart  of  my  boy, — 'twas  the  nur 
ture  of  all  our  days, — 

For  mother  was  patient,  Maud,  and  loved  him 
and  taught  him,  too, 

To  be  kindly  and  patient  and  loving,  and  al 
ways  loyal  and  true. 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


But  she  was  a  fortune-hunter,  with  a  pair    of 

warm  brown  eyes, 
And  he  was  young  and  loved  her, — I  thought 

it  scarcely  wise  ! — 

But  it  wasn't  for  mother  and  me  to  knov;  what 
was  the  best, — 

And  marrying  other  people  is  wisdom's  grand 
est  test  ! — 

So  we  wept  a  little  together,  and  let  them  go 

their  way, 
And    Maud,    my    Darling,  you  know  the  rest. 

There  came  a  day 

When  we  quarreled — we  couldn't  help  it — I'm 

sorry  for  all  tonight  ! 
I  tried  to  do  my  best,  but  the  world  wouldn't 

seem  to  go  right. 

And  you're  the  last  of  all,  Maud,  for  mother  is 

sleeping,  too, 
And  I   am   all   alone,   Maud,   in    the    shadows, 

alone  with  you. 

You  will  stay  with  me,  Darling,  you  say  ?     No, 

that  can  never  be, 
For   you    have   a  life   to  live,   too,   apart  from 

mother  and  me. 


MAUDS    WEDDING    DAY. 


She  sleeps  in  the  silent  ferns,  Maud,  that  you 

planted  on  the  hill, 
And  I'll  soon  be  lying  beside  her,  if  gracious 

Heaven  will, 

And  I'm  not  such  a  brute  of  a  father,  to  spoil 

my  Maud's  birthright 
For  the  few  short  years  of  evening,  before  I  bid 

her  good  night ; 

For  William's  a  fine-built  fellow  with  a  strong 

and  manly  face, 
And  he'll  be  good  to  you,  Maud,  and  he  comes 

of  a  goodly  race. 

You  love  him,  you  say,  and  he's  noble  and 
loyal  and  tender  and  true, 

And  I  love  him,  too,  my  child,  almost  as  dear 
ly  as  you  ; 

So  blessings  on  both  forever,  for  tomorrow's 
the  wedding  day, 

And  it  matters  little  how  soon  now  the  shad 
ows  creep  this  way. 

But  when  the  first  babe  comes,  Maud,  remem 
ber  us  cheerily, 

And  nestle  it  soft  in  the  ferns,  Dear,  for  the 
sake  of  mother  and  me. 


THE  INVALID. 


THE  days  grow  dark  and  lone,  Alice,   dark 
and  dreary  for  me, 

And  the  years  float  on  like  sea-weed  adrift  on 
a  stagnant  sea. 

But  there  must  be  currents  below,  for  I  know 
I  am  far  away 

From  the  purple  isles  of  light  where  my  ill- 
starred  infancy  lay. 

I  try  to  be  patient  and  bear  the  tedium  of  the 

hours, 
And  take  no   thought  of  the  morrow,  though 

Night  above  me  lowers  ; 

But  I  can  not  bear  it  forever,  my  soul  is  rebel 
lious  flame  ; 

Why  was  an  eagle's  spirit  chained  down  to  this 
shattered  frame  ? 


THE    INVALID. 


Every  muscle  should  have  been  strong  as  the 

lion's  lusty  thews, 
Whose   chase-worn   strength  the   day  for  each 

midnight  chase  renews  ! 

The  blood  should  have  surged  in  my  veins  with 

a  full  impetuous  tide, 
That  could  nourish  power  and  passion  and  fling 

Life's  portals  wide 

To  storm  and  sun  alike,   and  conquer  and  use 

them  both 
For  the  ripening  of  the  brain  and  the  spirit's 

dauntless  growth  ! 

But  a  baby's  hand  is  as  strong  as  this  withered 

hand  of  mine, 
And  health  and  hope  are  gone,  and  marred  is 

the  fair  design, 

The  Angel  of  Life  had  sketched  with  his  pencil 

of  seven-hued  light, 
When   my  soul  burst    forth    like    a    star    from 

Being's  primal  night. 

Three  score  ?     Is    it  blessed  to   live  when   all 

that  is  worth  the  living 
Is  ruined  ?     So  long,  and  remember  a  deed  that 

is  past  forgiving  ? 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


His   blows  ?     His    curses  ?     That    look  ?     The 

tyranny  worse  than  all  ? 
The  cloister  prison  that    kept   the    heart    and 

brain  in  thrall 

To  creeds  effete  and  dead,  and  systems  rotten 

and  old  ? 
I'd  rather  be  dead  as  they,  and  turned  into  dust 

and  mould. 

For  I  stood  on  the  threshold  of  life,  in  the  face 

of  the  universe, 
A  mendicant  begging  with  hands  outstretched 

for  an  alms, — or  worse, 

A  mind  misformed  and  warped,  a  hand  un 
skilled  in  aught, 

The  Gordian  knot  of  the  world  drawn  harder 
by  all  I  wrought. 

And  mine  the  fault  ?     If  I  lounge  in  the  Inn  of 

the  World,  and  eat, 
And    pay    no  reckonings   back,    is    it  counted 

wrong  to  cheat 

The  World  of  my  feed  and  keep,  that  robbed 

my  whole  birthright, 
And    left   me    naked    and    bare,    unpitied    in 

wretched  plight  ? 


THE    INVALID. 


Give  me  my  strength,  O  World  !     I'll  struggle 

along  with  the  rest, 
And  pay  the  uttermost  farthing,  and  count  all 

things  as  best ! 

But  the  days  are  dark  and  lone,  Alice,  so  lone 

and  dreary  for  me, 
As  the  years  float  on  like  sea-weed  adrift  on  a 

stagnant  sea. 

I  have  friends  ?  That  are  kind  ?  I  am  grate 
ful  to  them,  to  all,  to  you, 

But  the  bliss  is  in  the  helping,  and  I  am  all 
helpless,  too. 

If  only  the  struggle  were  done  !     A  man  with 

the  passions  of  man, 
I  love— Let  it  pass  ! — I  have   loved, — as   only 

the  passionate  can, 

With  the  blindness  of  devotion,  with  soul  and 

mind  and  heart, — 
My  sister  ?     I  love  her  as  warm,  but  she  has  a 

life  apart  ! 

Her  child  ?     She's  the  sunshine  of  life,  and  fair 

as  a  flower  of  May, 
But  the  years  will  make  her  a  woman,  and  steal 

her  heart  away  ! 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


Hush,  Alice  !  Sweet  Alice,  forbid — let  it  die, 
the  unuttered  word  ! 

No  random  yearning  of  mine  from  its  fixed  re 
solve  has  erred, 

Never  to  let  a  woman  turn  sympathy  into 
love 

And  mingle  her  fate  with  mine  ! — let  the  inno 
cent  snowy  dove 

Consort  with  the  kite  ! — Yet  I  yearn  with  the 
strength  of  my  passionate  soul, 

To  stretch  out  my  arms  to  something,  ere  I 
touch  Time's  latest  goal, 

And  clasp  it,  and  call  it  mine,  all  mine,  and  for 
ever  mine! 

To  love  and  cherish  forever,  mine,  mine,  warm 
ly  faithfully  mine  ! 

'Twas  a  dream  ! — 'Tis  a  dream — that  must  die 
with  the  dreamer,  unfulfilled, 

In  a  heart  full  of  dust  and  ashes,  where  the 
buds  of  joy  were  killed  ! 

The  fittest  survive,  I  can  see,  but  little  comfort 

it  gives 
To  the  weakest  in  the  fight,  to  be  conscious  of 

death  while  he  lives. 


10 


THE    INVALID. 


There  a  father  with  light  in  his  face  and  the 
pride  of  his  life  on  his  knee, 

Looks  Fate  in  the  face  serenely.  His  race 
continues  to  be. 

His  name  will  be  heard  for  ages,  in  honor  and 

blessing  and  praise, 
And    his    deeds    will    be    cherished    and    told 

through  all  the  coming  days. 

And  a  part  of  his  soul  will  live,  in  an  everlast 
ing  life, 

Victorious  over  death  in  the  never-ending 
strife, 

But  my  race  must  perish,  at  last,  and  none  will 
weep  for  me, 

If  I  overlive  the  few  who  have  loved  me  faith 
fully. 

Turn  mad  ?  And  berate  the  world  ?  And 
curse  the  living  and  dead  ? 

Because  they  gave  me  a  stone,  when  I  wanted 
only  bread  ? 

O  not  while  the  world  has  love  and  peace  for 

the  many,  shall  I 
Despair    of    the    far   event,    though   I    may  be 

doomed  to  die  ! 


XI 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


And  perchance  I  am  part  of  a  plan,  a  part  of 
this  old  world's  life 

Not  utterly  lost  and  forgotten,  though  con 
quered  in  the  strife, 

And  who  can  know,   but  someday,    when   this 

broken  body  is  gone, 
I  may  stand  an  equal  chance  with  the  rest,   in 

the  coming  Dawn  ? 

And  thus  there  is  peace,    sweet    Alice,    peace 

sometimes  even  for  me, 
Though  the  years  float  on  like  sea-weed  adrift 

on  a  stagnant  sea ! 


12 


AGNES  LILIENKRON, 

THE  FORSAKEN. 


TO  the    sea-shore  ?     Down  by  the  bay  ?     To 
morrow  ?     Going  so  soon  ? 

Oh  to  watch  the  silent  ships  asleep  in  the  mid 
night  moon  ! 

Oh  to  hear  the  dip  of  an  oar  and  the  grating  of 

a  keel 
And  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  shore  that  my 

waiting  heart  could  feel ! 

Have  I  ever  been  there  ?  Yes,  once, — years 
ago  ! — I  learned  by  heart 

Every  turn  and  wind  of  the  shore  ! — your  par 
don,  sir  ! — tears  will  start, 

But  you  seemed  so  kindly,  sir, — to  have  a  heart 

somewhere — 
That    I    trusted    you, — couldn't  help  it — 'twas 

your  face,  sir,  and  manly  air, — 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


And  I  could  have  loved    you — madly — but    I 

have  no  heart,  sir,  here  ! — 
It's  down  there,  down  by  the  sea-shore,  dead, 

dead  this  many  a  year  ! 

Dead  ?     As  good  as  dead,  though  it  throbs  and 

throbs  in  its  endless  pain! 
He's  there  ! — the  lord  of  my  life  ! — was  there — 

whom  I'll  never  see  again  ! 

Perchance  he  is  gone — gone  again — and  an 
other  widowed  heart 

Is  broken  and  crazed  like  mine  ! — Tomorrow, 
you  say,  you  start  ? 

Perhaps  you  will  meet  him  !  And  then,  will  you 
bear  him  a  message  from  me, 

And  tell  him  I  love  him  still,  and  pine  for  the 
moonlit  sea, 

And  the  boat  that  used  to  glide  like  a  dream  on 

the  rising  tide 
Far  out  on  the  evening  bay — and  he  was  by  my 

side ! — 

You  will  think  me  frail,  I  know,  but  I'd  sell  my 
hopes  of  heaven 

To  lie  in  his  arms  tonight — nor  ask  to  b«  for 
given 


AGNES    LILIENKRON,    THE    FORSAKEN. 


If  only  the  day  never  dawned  to  tear  me  away 

from  him  ! — 
I'd  rather  be   tortured,   or  burned,  or  severed 

limb  from  limb  ! — 

Oh  the  exquisite  bliss  of  yielding  to  his  impas 
sioned  will ! 

Oh  the  clasp  of  his  mighty  arms — I  can  feel 
them  holding  me  still  ! 

Oh  the  kiss  that  sent  the  blood  flood-tiding  up 

to  the  lips 
And  coursing  and  thrilling  and  tingling  from 

the  heart  to  the  finger-tips  ! 

You're  startled  ?  We  were  wedded,  sir,  wed 
ded,  and  never  a  chaster  bride 

Graced  a  marriage  feast,  or  sat  by  her  honored 
husband's  side. 

But  scarcely  a  year  and  a  day, — and  down  by 

the  moonlit  sea 
A  serpent  our  Paradise  entered,  to  ruin  my  love 

and  me  ! 

An   ugly    rumor   was   whispered,    that    said   I 

wasn't  his  wife, 
But  only  a  mistress,  at  best, — and  the  helpless 

innocent  life 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


That  was  nestling  under  my  heart,  could  never 

wear  his  name, 
Nor  look  the  world  in  the  face  ! — And  then  a 

woman  came, 

A   beautiful    haggard    face,    that    had  suffered 

deeper  than  I, 
And  told  a  pitiful  story — of  love  in  the  days 

gone  by — 

Of  a  broken  heart — of  love  by  an  artful  mis 
tress  stolen, 

Till  I  cursed  the  robber,  and  wept, — her  eyes 
with  tears  were  swollen  ! 

I  asked  her  the  villain's  name.     With  a  sob  she 

turned  aside, 
Uncovered  the  face  of  her  babe,  and  said  with 

a  broken  pride : 

"There,  madam,  read  in  its  face  the  name  it 

ought  to  bear ! 
I've  come  to  ferret  him  out — the  beast  in  his 

seaside  lair  ! 

He  is  here,  somewhere,  I  know.     They  said  he 

was  seen  on  the  bay — 
Came  nightly  ashore,  or  rowed  for  hours  where 

the  shadows  lay 


16 


AGNES    LILIENKRON,    THE    FORSAKEN. 


With  his  leman  in  the  bow — Have  you  seen 
him,  lady  ? — those  eyes, 

That  face  ?  "  I  started — 'twas  he  ! — I  ques 
tioned  in  quick  surprise, 

His  name  ?  Great  God  !  It  was  his  ! — "  Low 
slanderer,  be  gone  !  "  I  cried  ; — 

"  My  husband  ?  "  Belike  !  And  mine,  and 
others  enough  beside ! 

Has  he  limed  you,  too  ?     Ah,  well !     Be  happy 

and  love  him  still. 
I  leave  him  to  you  and  yours  and  the  curse  of  a 

wandering  will. 

I  would  his  hand  had  slain  me  ! — It  strangled 

two  others  before — 
But  my  babe  and   I   are   doomed  to  bear  one 

trial  the  more. 

Farewell  !  "     She  said,  and  was  gone.     And  he 

was  gone  !     That  day 
A   vessel   lifted   anchor   and  sailed  and  sailed 

away, 

And  never  since  then  have  I  heard  the  dipping 

of  an  oar, 
And   never    a  grating   keel,  or  the  sound  of  a 

step  on  the  shore. 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


They  brought  me  home  again — a  falcon  with 

pinions  clipped — 
I  heard  from  him  once — he  was  back  where  the 

splashing  oars  had  dipped. 

I    tried    to    run    away,    but    they    caught    and 

brought  me  here, 
A    prisoner — held   by    an    oath    and    a    dying 

mother's  tear ! — 

My  babe  ?    I  killed  it,  sir,  killed  it,  blighted  its 

budding  life 
Before  it  could  dream  or  know  men's  jealousy 

and  strife. 

And   since   then    I   haven't  a  heart,  but  only  a 

stone  somewhere 
In  my  bosom,  that  weighs  me  down  like  a  ton 

of  dead  despair ! 

But  a  woman   is  foolish  and  frail,  and  cannot 

master  her  will ! 
I   loved  him — I  worshipped   him  then— I  love 

and  worship  him  still. 

And  I'd  creep  in  the  dust  to  his  feet,  and  plead 

to  be  loved  again, 
Though  he  spurned  me  and  gave  me  instead  a 

death  of  infinite  pain  ! 


18 


HERMANN  SAMSSEL. 


T   OUGHT    to  be    grateful  ?      Ah,    well  !     Is 

gratitude  only  a  duty 
To  be    felt    by    an    effort  of   will  ?     toward    a 

fiend  ?     or  a  brute  ?     where  no  beauty 

Of  heart  or  soul  impels  it  ?  I  ought  to  love  her, 

I'm  told 
By  a   threadbare  text  of  the  law,  but  feelings 

are  bought  and  sold 

By  an  equal  exchange  of  love,  or  an  equal  bar 
ter  of  hate, 

And  the  scales  are  just  and  true,  that  mete  out 
weight  for  weight, 

And  they  dip  with  the  heft  of  a  hair,  while  a 

god  looks  on  to  repay, 
Each  moment  its  own   perfect  guerdon,    each 

moment  its  judgment  day. 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


I  ought  to  honor  her  ?     That  my  days  may  be 

long  in  the  land  ? 
'Twere  better   I  ween,  for  me,  had  she  stayed 

her  murderous  hand, — 

Or  better,  perchance,  had  not  failed  to  throttle 
my  dawning  life, — 

I  never  had  hated  her  then  nor  known  this  mad 
dening  strife, — • 

Oh  that  I  never  had  been,  that  the  day  of  my 

birth  were  dead, 
That  an    infinite  night  had  swallowed  forever 

this  infinite    dread 

Of  being  and  doing  and   thinking  in  endless 

mad  career, 
The   sport   of   an    inborn    hate,  of   frenzy  and 

gloom  and  fear ! 

You  are  happy  ?  and  others,  too  ?  and  a  mother's 

love  has  blessed  ? 
And  home  is  as  snug  and  warm  as  the  callow 

birdling's  nest  ? 

Well,  be  happy  and  grateful  and  good,  for  such 

is  your  glad  birthright, 
For  the  stars  that  shone  on  your  birth  made  a 

glad  and  tranquil  night 


20 


HERMANN    SAMSSELS. 


For  the  mother  who  felt  on  her  breast  the 
touch  of  your  innocent  lips 

And  followed,  forgetting  her  pain,  the  wander 
ing  finger-tips 

As  they  started  and  grasped  at  naught.  She 
loved  your  faintest  breath. 

But  if  she  had  loathed  you,  instead,  and  cursed 
you  and  plotted  your  death  ? 

My  mother  ?  Bone  of  her  bone,  and  flesh  of 
her  flesh,  too  true  ! 

And  her  blood  is  pent  in  my  veins  with  a  venom 
ous  flood-tide,  too. 

Does  that  make  a  mother,  forsooth  ?  that  like 

an  outcast  bud 
She  surrendered  the  protoplasm,  and  nourished 

it  with  her  blood  ? 

It  is  love,  not  blood,  that  makes  the  soul  of  kin 
ship,  for  me, 

And  loving  care  makes  the  mother,  as  long  as 
Time  shall  be  ! 

But  why  do  I   rage  ?     I  ought  to  be  mute  nor 

her  slumbers  molest 
When  the  grass  has  been  green  for  years  that 

covers  her  harmless  breast  ? 


21 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Harmless  ?  'Tis  hard  to  say,  if  the  harm  is 
over  so  soon, 

And  the  harvest,  sown  in  the  years,  all  gar 
nered  with  the  moon 

That  wanes  o'er  the  fresh-dug  grave  !     I  feel  it 

within  me  still, 
That  her  every  loathing  thought  and  murderous 

purpose  of  will 

Are  built  into  flesh  and  bone  and  burned  into 

nerve  and  brain 
Till  I  hate    the  whole    world,  and  myself,  and 

gloat  o'er  its  burden  of  pain, 

With  a  demonish  joy  that  the  rest  are  shut  from 
their  Paradise  too, 

And  the  Earth  is  a  crowded  bedlam,  all  mad 
ness  through  and  through. 

The  years  never  hear  a  prayer,  and  thoughts 
are  as  deathless  as  deeds, 

And  never  a  love  or  a  hate,  but  bears  the  hid 
den  seeds 

Of  endless  loving  and  hating.     The  world  is  a 

growth  and  a  law, 
And    the  dead  mold  the  living,  for    aye,  with 

fated  perfection  or  flaw. 


22 


HERMANN    SAMSSELS. 


Harmless  ?     When  I  am  dead,  and  my  madness 

and  crimes  are  dead, 
But  a  poisoned  well  until — Beware  !     Hath  not 

God  said  ; 

"Judge  not"  and  "Vengeance  is  mine"  ?  Yea, 
he  judged,  and  I  am  the  curse 

He  denounced  at  his  judgment  day.  From  a 
salt  and  bitter  source 

The  waters  of  Marah  have  flowed.  My  mother 
attempted  to  slay — 

A  silk  and  damask  sin,  but  common  enough  to 
day — 

Her  babe, — and  wrought  for  herself  a  slow  and 

lingering  death, 
And  Azrael  came  with  the  Angel  of  Life,  when 

it  wailed  for  breath. 

She  is  under  the  sod — frail  flesh — I'd  pity  her 

if  I  could — 
Perchance  she  was  wronged — and  by  him — who 

never  understood 

How  a  woman's  soul  can  loathe,  what  a  woman's 

hand  can  do, 
When  the  choosing  or  refusing   is  a   right  too 

strange  and  new 


23 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


For  the  mother  to  claim,— my  father,  a  sleek 

conventional  soul 
Who   never    was  vexed  with   a  doubt  that  his 

morals  were  sound  and  whole, 

Who   knew  what  virtue  meant,  and  prized  it  in 

his  home, 
And  while  his  passions  were  stilled,  was  never 

known  to  roam, 

Who  was  reckoned  chaste  enough,  by  the  letter 

of  the  law, — 
But  a  woman's  heart  was  breaking — rebellious 

demons  saw 

The  empty  room  in  her  heart,  and  filled  it  with 
murderous  hate. 

And  I  am  her  victim,  and  his.  A  strange  un 
common  fate  ? 

Thank    God   if    it   were !     'Tis    enough    if    one 

should  drain  such  a  cup  ! 
But  a  million  more,— God  forbid,  that  more  be 

offered  up, 

While   Belial's  altar  smokes  with  the  blood  of 

babes  unborn, 
And  mothers  with   empty  arms  look  cold  and 

refuse  to  mourn  ! 


24 


THE  BASTARD  OF  OLD 
SIR  HUGHS. 


C 


AN  it  be?  How  could he  do  it?   How  could 

he  be  so  cruel 
To  rob  me  and  basely  defraud  me    of  man's 
most  precious  jewel  ? 

Can  it    be  ?     Is   he  father,  or   uncle  ?     Am    I 

bastard,  or  son  ? 
Why  did  they  set  me  thinking  of  where  my  life 

begun  ? 

Is   it  not  gall  enough  to  be  orphaned  twenty 

years, 
That  they  give  me  a  father  and  mother,  and  a 

shame  too  burning  for  tears  ? 

Give  me  my  orphanage  back  !     Take  away  the 

brand  of  shame  ! 
Give  me  my  dead  to  love,  and  not  the  living  to 

blame  1 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Who  called  me  a  bastard  ?     A  Voice  !     A  mere 

intangible  thing 
That  whispered  an  ugly  guess   at  the   mystery 

whence  I  spring ! 

Let  it  pass  !  None  knows !  Who  can  read  in 
the  blank  of  a  passionless  face 

That  deep  in  the  heart  are  lurking  suspicions  of 
disgrace  ? 

I'll  crush  it !     I'll  live  it  down  !     I'll  bury  it  all 

so  deep, 
That  none  but  me  can  know  of  its  awful  hidden 

sleep  ! 

I  bury  it  ?     Crush  it  ?     Kill  it  ?     A    thing   that 

can  never  die 
While  a  hundred  feel  it  and  know  it,  other  than 

he  and  I  ? 

She    knows    it — his    victim — my   mother,    and 

others  all  around, 
For  twenty  years  is  too  short  for  all  to  be  under 

the  ground, 

Who  knew  of  the  scandal  then,  and  his  lasci 
vious  stealth, 

But  winked  and  condoned  it  all,  because  of  his 
title  and  wealth. 


26 


THE    BASTARD    OF    OLD    SIR    HUGHS. 


And  they'll  pass  me  every  day,  and  smile  and 
shake  their  head: 

"He's  the  Bastard  of  old  Sir  Hughs,  who  wan 
dered  before  he  was  wed." 

But  I  rave  !     It  is  all  a  lie,  a  cruel,  hateful  lie 
Born  of  a  morbid  fancy  !     I'll  conquer  it  bye 
and  bye  ! 

For  I  had  a  mother  once.     I  remember  a  warm 

sweet  face 
That   bent  above  me   and  smiled,  with  a  dear 

unspeakable  grace. 

I   remember   a    clear  low   voice,   that    crooned 

sweet  lullabies, 
And   I    loved   to   lie  and  listen,  with   half-shut 

dreaming  eyes, 

Till  I  fell  asleep  in  her  arms.     Was  it  she  that 

bent  above  me, — 
My  mother, — or   only  a  nurse    just  hired  with 

gold  to  love  me  ? 

I  remember  a  time  when  they  came, — they  tried 

to  take  me  away, 
And   I   struggled   and  clung   to  her  still,   and 

fought  and  kept  them  at  bay 


27 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


With    endless    kicking    and  screaming,    till    I 

heard  a  gruff  voice  say: 
"Come,   woman,    it's  time  to  go !"     Then   she 

wept  and  fainted  away 

And  fell  on  the  floor  before  him.     The  rest  is 

all  a  blur— 
I  was  hurried  away — to  the  North — to  the  cold 

— away  from  her. 

How  could  they  be  hard  to  a  mother  ?     Or  if  it 

was  only  a  nurse, 
A  pest  fall  on  his  body,  and  on  his  soul  my 

curse  ! 

And,  my  name  is  not  Sir  Hughs'.     If  he  is  my 

uncle  in  sooth, 
She  must  have  been  his  sister,  for  if  he  told  me 

the  truth, 

He  himself  is  an  only  son  of  an  old  and  blooded 

race. 
Then  why  have  not  I,  like  his  son,  a  full-blown 

lusty  face, 

With  eyes  like  the  English  skies,  and  cheeks 

like  the  English  rose, 
And  whiskers  of  amber    ale    that    froths    and 

foams  as  it  flows  ? 


28 


THE    BASTARD    OF    OLD    SIR    HUGHS. 


For  mine  is  an  ample  brow,  and  features  ner 
vous  and  thin  — 

Not  a  trace  of  English  blood,  by  my  glass,  from 
forehead  to  chin  ! 

He  loves  me,  he  said  to  me  once,  because  I've 

my  mother's  face. 
Why  should  he  love  an  olive  skin  and  eyes  of  a 

duskier  race  ? 

Great  God  !     Can  it  be  ?     Have   I  guessed  it  ? 

the  horrible  branding  truth  ? 
He  told  me  of  summers  in  Italy,  of  wild  oats 

sown  in  his  youth. 

Had  he  loved  an  Italian  maid,  or  Alpine  herds 
man's  girl, 

And  fooled  her  with  vows  and  pledges  unmeet 
for  the  son  of  an  earl  ? 

Had  he  left  her  at  length  to  bear  alone  their 

mutual  blame, 
And  give  me  birth  and  suckle  me  into  a  life  of 

shame  ? 

O  mother  !     My  blameless  mother  !     Whom  too 

much  trust  betrayed 
To  the  amorous  touch  of  a  brute,  who  would 

not  be  gainsaid  ! 


29 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


I  loathe  him,  I  hate  him  forever,  with  a  bound 
less  burning  hate, 

That  never  on  earth  or  in  hell  shall  be  glutted 
or  satiate  ! 

Hate  him  ?     Hate  a  father  to  whom  with  all  his 

faults  I  owe 
My  life  and  all  I  have  been  in  the  happy  long 

ago? 

For  I  have  been  happy,  at  least,  and  could  be 

happy  still 
If  a  devilish  voice  could  be  muffled  by  strength 

of  human  will. 

For  mayhap  he  is  what  he  says — an  uncle,  and 

nothing  to  me 
But  the  kindest  soul  among  men  ! — But  why  this 

secrecy  ? 

Why  not  tell  me  about  my  mother  ?     I  am  mad 

with  longing  to  love  her  ! 
If  dead,  let  me  go  and  weep  with  my  lips  in  the 

dust  above  her  ! 

If  living, — just  God  forgive  if  I  wrongly  curse 

the  hand 
That   tore  me   away  from   her,  perchance   in  a 

foreign  land  ! 


3° 


THE    BASTARD    OF    OLD    SIR    HUGHS. 


0  clasp  me  again  to  thy  heart,  sweet  mother, 

and  sing  me  to  sleep  ! 

1  am  tired  of  this  hideous  dream  ! — But  it's  long 

since  I  saw  her  weep, 

And  who  knows  where  she  is  to-day  ?  De 
spised  ?  Adrift  on  the  street  ? 

And  touched  with  a  loathsome  pest,  and  foul 
from  her  head  to  her  feet  ? 

And  driven  to  shame  by  him  ?  I'd  kill  him  if  I 
knew 

Such  blood  were  coursing  and  tingling  my  arter 
ies  through  and  through  ! 

Why  am  I  not  all  to-day  that  the  devils  in  hell 
could  wish, 

If  a  double  stream  of  lust  had  built  this  quiver 
ing  flesh  ? 

Nay  she  was  pure,  at  least !      Was  pure  !      God 

rest  her  soul, 
If   one  false  step  in  her  youth    left  her  body 

stained  and  unwhole  ! 

Go  and  ask  him  ?  Ask  all  ?  I  dare  not.  He'd 
shrug  his  shoulders  and  smile, 

He  dare  not  own  me  the  truth,  though  I  guessed 
it  all  the  while. 


31 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


And  I'd  choose  for  one,  to  suffer  the  horror  of 

doubtful  blame 
Rather   than  face   the  blighting  knowledge  of 

certain  shame  ! 

And  whatever  else  may  come,  and  whatever  else 
may  be, 

All  the  light  and  the  joy  of  living  is  gone  for 
ever  from  me  ! 


VIRGINIUS. 


T_T  AVE  I  ever  hated  a  man?  Yes,  once,  in  the 

days  gone  by, 
I  hated  him — hate  him  still, — and  shall  until  I 

die. 

His  crime  ?  Not  a  crime  at  all !  There  are 
things  far  worse  than  crimes 

That  are  done,  untouched  by  the  law,  condoned 
by  the  fledgling  times  ! 

Is  a  murder,  that  ends  a  life,  half  as  bad  as  the 

dastardly  deed 
That  makes  the  soul  writhe  forever,  the  heart 

incessantly  bleed  ? 

Is  assault  with  bludgeon  or  fist  and  the  purple 

aching  flesh, 
That  will  heal  in  a  week  or  two,  and  be  sound 

and  whole  afresh, 


33 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Half  as  hard  to  bear,  as  the  thrust  that  wounds 
a  sensitive  soul 

And  leaves  its  poison  to  spread  till  its  virus  in 
flames  the  whole  ? 

Is  theft  of  a  purse  half  as  bad  as  the  theft  of  a 
hope  or  a  love 

That  budded  and  bloomed  as  fair  as  the  aspho 
dels  fabled  above  ? 

He  came  with  an  oily  tongue,  and  a  manner  so 

winning  kind, 
And  an  eye  that  worshipped  me,  and  made  me 

too  too  blind, 

Till  the  devilish  deed  was  done.     Could  I  for  a 

moment  dream 
That  a  thing  so  foul  as  he  so  gentle  and  fair 

might  seem  ? 

But  his  whitewashed  face  concealed  the  black 
ness  of  his  heart 

Till  the  plague-spot  rotted  through, — and  be 
trayed  his  hellish  art, — 

But  the  bloom  was  gone — and  her  life  was 
blighted, — a  pure  sweet  child, 

My  child,  my  only  child,  by  an  oily-tongued 
villain  defiled, — 


34 


VIRGINIUS. 


Too  young  to  guard  herself,  too  old  for  the  law's 

defense, 
A  fresh  young  partridge  to  him,  just  fatted  to 

please  his  sense. 

Why  didn't  he  kill    her,   and  end  forever  her 

blighted  life  ? 
Or  why  did  not  I, — a  belated   Virginius, — give 

her  to  wife 

In  the  land  of  shadows  and  ghosts  to  the  skele 
ton  arms  of  Death  ? 

A  kindlier  fate  than  to  live,  with  the  withering 
poisoned  breath 

Of  social  scandal  upon  her,  a  mark  for  lascivi 
ous  eyes, 

The  talk  of  the  town,  till  the  next  that  falls  an 
unguarded  prize 

In  the  confidence  game  of  life,  where  honor  is 

all  in  all 
In  a  woman's  lily  soul,— its  loss  the    bitterest 

gall- 

But  man,  the  superior  brute,  counts  honor  ser 
vility, 

The  badge  of  a  slavish  soul  ashamed  or  afraid 
to  be  free. 


35 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


Down  with  distinctions  of  sex !     Long  live  the 

Woman,  I  say  ! 
And  a  knotted  cord  for  the  back  of  the  brute 

who  dares  to  lay 

Unequal  burdens  on  her  ?     One  code,  one  brand 

for  them  both  ! 
Let  him  be  shunned  like  the  pest,  his  fellows  all 

be  loth 

To  graze  the  sleeve  of  his  coat !  Let  the  con 
demnation  fall 

Upon  the  source  of  the  woe,— or,  lovingly  lift 
the  pall 

That  hangs  o'er  his  helpless  victim  !     Hold  her 

as  white  as  him  ! 
Hobnob  with  her,  too,  and  forget,  and  fill  Life's 

cup  to  the  brim, 

And  quaff  it  down  !  Vivat !  Fill  up  her  bar 
ren  years 

With  a  home,  and  love,  and  children,  and  wipe 
away  her  tears 

With  Society's  silken  kerchief.     Alas,  the  brute 

is  alive 
Beneath  the  washing  of  culture  !     Let  her  go  to 

the  dive ! 


VIRGINIUS. 


Nay,  my  flesh  !     Sweet  and  clean  her  soul  and 

body  shall  be, 
But  the  world    is  not  large  enough  to  shelter 

both  him  and  me  ! 

If  his   shadow    darkens  my  home,  or  his  foot 

shall  seek  my  door, 
I'll   strike  him  down  where  he  stands  and  pay 

my  hatred's  score. 


37 


THE 
WEDDING  ANNIVERSARY. 


'"They  stood  together  in  Curtained  gloom, 
*      Husband  and  wife  by  the  laws  decree, 
Alone  in  the  face  of  a  crushing  doom, 

Alone  in  the  bitter  agony 
Of  keeping  the  law,  without  a  flaw, 

Though  the  spirit  of  love  go  unfulfilled, 
Guarding  the  vessel  with  pious  awe 

When  the  choicest  wine  of  life  is  spilled. 

Dumb  with  an  anguish  they  could  not  speak, 

Mute  with  a  truth  they  dared  not  face, 
Heart  to  heart,  and  cheek  to  cheek, 

They  convulsively  clung  in  a  long  embrace, 
As  if  the  years  could  melt  to  tears, 

And  gush  away  to  oblivion, 
Leaving  but  love  that  doubts  nor  fears 

And  the  troth  they  had  plighted  years  agone. 


THE    WEDDING    ANNIVERSARY. 


"Uphold  me,  I  faint !"     The  fated  word 

Burst  from  her  lips.     The  woe  suppressed 
Of  her  choking  voice,  his  bosom  stirred  : 

"Clasp  me   close,  ay  close  to  thy  throbbing 

breast ! 
My  heart  is  bleeding,  my  soul  is  pleading, 

For  words  that  were  spoken  so  often  of  yore, 
My  life  in  its  passionate  interceding 

Unheard  is  withering  evermore  !" 

"They  said,  thou  art  false,  thou  art  hollow  and 
cold, 

Thou  lovest  me  not,  thou  art  weary  of  me. 
I  heard  when  their  slanderous  tongues  grew  bold. 

They  were  false  and  cruel.     I  trusted  thee. 
But  I  never  knew,  for  thy  words  were  few 

And  thy  brow  grew  dark  when  I  came  to  thee, 
If  deep  in  its  cold  thy  heart  beat  true 

And  cherished  its  old  sweet  dreams  of  me." 


39 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


"And  I  wept  in  silence  and  all  alone, 

Alone  and  unmarked  for  thy  sweet  sake, 
For  thou  wert  mute  and  sadder  grown, — 

I  wept  at  their  lies  till  my  heart  would  break. 
Oh  Love,  give  me  my  love  !     I  ask  but  for  love  ! 

I  am  dying  of  doubt, — dying,  dying  each  day, 
For  a  word,  for  a  look,  that  like  rain  from  above 

Could  make  my  poor  withered  heart  blossom 
for  aye  !" 

"Thou  wert  gone  from  our  home  so  oft,  so  long, 

Thou  wert  colder  and  sadder  at  each  return 
Till  I    yearned, — God   forgive,  if   the  wish  was 
wrong  ! — 

As  only  a  mother's  heart  can  yearn, 
For  our  one  dead  child  with  its  eyes  that  smiled, 

To  come  from  its  lily-nestled  rest 
And  soothe  my  heart  with  its  presence  mild 

And  cool  with  its  lips  my  burning  breast !" 


40 


THE    WEDDING    ANNIVERSARY. 


"Then  I  thought  in  my  soul — for  dull  pain  warps 

The  soul's  clear  sight  with  its  cheating  glass — 
'Twere  better  to  be  a  cold  cold  corpse 

And  slumber  beneath  the  quiet  grass, 
In  my  darling's  bed,  with  a  stone  at  my  head 

To  guard  forever  our  dreamless  sleep, 
And  I  almost  envied  the  peaceful  dead, 

At  rest,  and  never  again  to  weep  !" 

"My  heart,  though  crushed,  at  first  was  loth 

To  dream  of  a  life  apart  from  thee; 
But  hath  God  sworn  with  a  mighty  oath, 

That  Law  is  stronger  than  Destiny  ? 
Must  our  marriage  vow  be  held  sacred  now 

When  it  curses  two  lives  and  blesses  none  ? 
Must  we  bear  on  pinched  cheek  and  brow 

The  blight  of  the   ten   dead   years   that  are 
gone  ? " 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


"Look  on  yon  half-veiled  portrait !     See  ! 

The  tender  eyes  are  so  full  of  bliss. 
She  is  dreaming  still— ay  dreaming  of  thee, 

Of  a  murmured  pledge,  and  one  lingering  kiss  ! 
Then  look  on  my  tear-sunken  eye  ! 

Oh  God,  had  we  never  loved  and  wed  1 
Let  us  crush  forever  this  formal  lie, 

And  part !     I  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

Her  weak  arms  slipped  from  his  close  embrace — 

He  pillowed  her  head  on  his  trembling  knee — 
His  tears  fell  hot  on  her  upturned  face — 

And  his  white  lips  quivered  in  agony  : 
"They  slandered  thee,  as  they  slandered  me  ! 

They  were  hellish  lies  but  they  burned  in  my 

brain  ! 
O  God,  forgive  !     I  have  murdered  thee  !" 

And  he  kissed  her  pale  cold  lips  again  ! 


42 


THE  TUNKER  MAIDEN. 

A   MEMORIAL   PIECE. 


TJ  ANG  on  the  wreath  ! 

Wind  the  old  battle-flag  round  his  tomb, 

Its  torn  folds  sweeping  his  grave, 
For  underneath 

Sleeps  one  of  the  brave  ! 
White  roses  droop  o'er  his  hallowed  dust, 
From  their  dewy  lips  exhaling  perfume, 
While  the  late  May  winds  in  frolic  blow, 
And  scatter  their  petals  like  flakes  of  snow 

At  every  fitful  gust. 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


II 


O  sacred  Memorial  Day 

When  the  Nation  remembers  her  dead  ! 
O  holy  tribute  the  loyal  pay 

Of  love  and  tears  for  the  blood  they  shed 

Let  the  cannon  boom  ! 
While  the  gray  old  heroes  come 
Mustering  to  the  rolling  drum  1 

Make  room  !  Make  room  ! 
For  the  gallant  column  marching  down 

Out  of  the  town 

To  salute  the  dead  ! 

Let  the  prayer  be  said, 

And  the  farewell  gun 
Be  shot  o'er  each  comrade's  grave  ! 
The  crowd  is  gone.     The  rites  are  done. 
All  honor  to  the  brave  ! 


44 


THE     TUNKER    MAIDEN. 


Ill 


Hang  on  the  wreath  ! 
Wind  the  torn  battle-flag  round  his  tomb  I 

For  underneath 
Sleeps  the  dust  of  the  brave  ! 
Lost  in  earth's  sepulchral  gloom, 
He  rests  alone, 
Unmarked  and  unknown, 

And  no  martial  pageant  shall  honor  his  grave, 
For  the  gay  young  world  remembers  not, 
And  his  grizzled  comrades  forget  the  spot, 
But  the  sun  shall  fail, 
And  the  moon  wax  pale, 
And  the  stars  of  night  in  darkness  set, 
Ere  the  Tunker  maiden's  heart  forget. 


45 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


IV 

Hang  on  the  wreath  ! 

Wind  the  stained  battle-flag  round  his  tomb, 
Its  torn  folds  sweeping  his  grave  ! 

For  its  stains  are  red 

With  the  blood  of  the  dead 
That  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  brave  ! 
Through  thee  alone  and  thy  sweet  faith, 

Fair  maid  of  the  loyal  heart, 

Hath  he  his  part 

In  the  drum's  glad  beat  and  the  cannon's  boom  ! 
Ay  !  Bury  thy  head  in  the  long  grave  grass, 
While  the  dead  dead  years  in  memory  pass ! 


46 


THK     TUNKER    MAIDlilSf. 


Brave  hearts  and  true,  all  hail ! 
Blood  and  treasure 
Without  measure 

Flow  around  their  country's  altar, 
They,  the  true  hearts,  never  falter. 

Hail,  all  hail ! 

Columbia's  matchless  womanhood  ! 
Never  enemy  withstood 
Such  a  banded  sisterhood  ! 
For  their  cheers  and  tears,   through  the  bitter 

years, 

While  the  flag  was  rent  in  twain, 
Love-lighted  the  gory  path  of  glory, 
Till  the  flag  was  one  again  ! 


47 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


VI 


And  thou,  sweet  maiden,  royal  hearted, 

When  thy  gallant  love  departed, 

All  thy  hopes  save  one  were  blighted. 

'Twas  the  day  your  hearts  were  plighted 

That  the  shot  from  Sumter  frighted 

All  the  slumbering  North  awake. 

All  thy  peaceful  Elders  spake 

Words  of  patience  and  endurance, 

With  a  calm  and  high  assurance 

That  Almighty  God  doth  rule, 

That  his  ways  are  dark  and  hidden, 

And  to  question  is  forbidden 

To  the  children  of  Christ's  school. 

Plain  gray-bearded  nonconformers 

Counseled  peace,  and  counseled  quiet 

Abstinence  from  war's  loud  riot. 

Stern  descendents  of  reformers 

Prayed  for  mercy,  prayed  for  peace. 

When  Satan  raged  in  war's  increase, 

They  thought  upon  their  herds  and  flocks, 


THE     TUNKER    MAIDEN. 


Shook  their  Nazaritic  locks, 
And  remained  at  home,  secure, 
And  kept  their  robes  unworldly  pure. 
But  one  sweet  maiden,  loyal-hearted, 
When  the  shot  from  Sumter  boomed, 
Heard  the  voice  of  God,  and  started, 
For  she  felt  her  country  doomed, 
And  a  pleading  bondman's  moan 
Grew  a  deathless  undertone 
To  the  cannon's  bursting  thunder 
That  rent  the  Union  flag  asunder. 

"  Pray  for  peace,  O  reverend  Fathers  ! 
Weep  and  wonder,  pitying  Mothers  ! 
While  the  Nation  swiftly  gathers 

Precious  gifts  of  blood  from  others  ! 
But  if  we  pray  for  peace,  we'll  fight  for't, 
And  strive  with  sturdy  right  arm's  might  for't, 
And  spill  our  heart's  blood  with  delight  for't, 
And  God  will  stand  upon  our  right  for't, 
And  bless  our  loyal  brothers  !  " 


49 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


VII 

Hang  on  the  wreath  ! 
Wind  the  old  battle-flag  round  his  tomb  ! 

For  underneath, 
Wrapped  in  hallowed  earth's  embraces, 

He  sleeps  till  the  day  of  doom  ! 
He  alone  of  that  godly  few 
The  voice  of  his  clear-souled  sibyl  knew, 
Doffed  his  coat  of  somber  hue, 
And  donned  the  Union's  patriot  blue, 
And,  taking  thy  "  god  speed  "  full  of  kisses, 
Went  to  pray  with  his  armed  right  hand 
For  the  righteous  cause  of  his  bleeding  land. 

Thee  for  thy  daring  words  they  thrust 
Out  of  the  church,  like  a  worm  of  the  dust, 
Of  worldly  pride  and  striving  full, 
Rebellious  'gainst  Christ's  gentle  rule, 
Misled,  misleading  God's  own  elect. 
Anathema,  maranatha  !  ! 


5° 


THE     TUNKLER    MAIDEN. 

VIII 

Hang  on  the  wreath  ! 
Wind  the  torn  battle-flag  round  his  tomb  ! 

For  underneath 

Sleep  the  hopes  of  thirty  years. 
Others  have  garnered  the  harvest  of  tears 
That  were  sown  by  thee  so  long  ago 
In  the  days  of  the  Nation's  doom  ! 
Ay  !     Bury  thy  head  in  the  long  grave  grass, 
While  the  dead  dead  years  in  memory  pass, 
And  a  flurry  of  scented  snow 
Falls  on  thy  silvered  locks  below  ! 
Clasp  him  again  in  thy  arms  as  of  yore, 
When,    wounded    and    dying,    he    came    from 

the  war. 

Nurse  him  patiently  now  as  then. 
Kiss  him  tenderly.     Tell  him  again 
How  nobly  he  fought  and  how  brave. 
And  bless  the  blood  that  he  gladly  gave, 
That   the   flag  might  be  one  that  was  rent  in 

twain. 
Ay  !     Weep  as  his  tired  eye-lids  close  ! 

But  the  God  of  nations  knows 
Thine  was  the  greater  sacrifice. 
Thou  hast  paid  the  richer  price 
For  the  victory  over  his  foes  I 

5* 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


IX 


O  sacred  Memorial  Day 

When  the  Nation  remembers  her  dead  ! 
O  holy  tribute  the  loyal  pay 

Of  love  and  tears  for  the  blood  they  shed  ! 

Let  the  cannon  boom  ! 
While  the  gray  old  heroes  come 
Mustering  to  the  rolling  drum  ! 

Make  room  !     Make  room  ! 
For  the  gallant  column  marching  down 
Out  of  the  town 
To  salute  the  dead  ! 
Let  the  prayer  be  said, 
And  the  farewell  gun 
Be  shot  o'er  each  comrade's  grave  ! 
Farewell  !     Farewell  !     The  rites  are  done  ! 
Sleep  on,  Immortal  Band,  sleep  on, 
Into  the  morrow's  golden  dawn  ! 

Shout  for  the  joy  of  it,  shout, 
Ye  for  whom  the  battle  was  won  ! 

Ring,  glad  bells,  ring  merrily  out, 
Ye  that  knolled  when  the  red  blood  run  ! 


THE     TUNK.ER    MAIDEN. 


Huzza  !     Huzza  !     Huzza.  I 
All  honor  to  the  brave  ! 
But  hail,  all  hail,  to  the   Womanhood 
That  back  of  our  gallant  army  stood  ! 
Whose    cheers    and    tears,    through    the   bitter 

years, 

While  the  flag  was  rent  in  twain, 
Love-lighted  the  gory  path  of  glory, 
Till  the  flag  was  one  again  ! 


38" 


S3 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


THE   POET'S   PROTHALAMION 


SWEET  Love,  my  bride  and  wife  to  be,  come 
thou 

And  nestle  on  my  heart,  for  I  would  give 
One  half  this  world,  were  all  its  treasures  mine, 
To  hold  the?  in  my  empty  arms  once  more, 
And  I  would  give  it  all,  though  richer  far 
Than  a  world  of  worlds,  to  kiss  thee  on  the  lips 
With  burning,  lingering  kisses,  till  my  soul 
Grew  satisfied,  and  I  would  pawn  my  heart 
Still  throbbing  with  its  young  delirious  life, 


54 


THE    POETS    PROTHALAMION. 


Nor  hold  my  very  soul  too  dear  a  price 
For  one  embrace  or  one  touch  of  these  lips 
On  thy  white  unveiled  bosom  !  Come,  my  Love, 
My  Paragon  of  women,  my  heart's  Queen, 
And  Queen  of  home  to  be,  life's  dial  points 
To  where  the  dewy  morning  greets  the  noon  ! 
Too  soon  our  morn  will  be  the  afternoon  ! 
Stay  not  too  long,  but  come  ere  the  dew  is  gone ! 
We'll  wander  hand  in  hand  adown  this  world 
And  find  somewhere  among  the  haunts  of  men 
A  cosy  bit  of  Eden,  blooming  still 
For  thee  and  me  !  Come  with  thy  household  ways 
And  dear  domestic  skill,  and  at  thy  touch 


55 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Some  ivy-clambered  lodge  among  the  trees, 
Or  narrow  cottage  on  a  nameless  street 
Were  home  !  Stay  not  within  thy  father's  house 
To  close  his  eyes  into  their  latest  sleep, 
Though  he  hath  loved  thee  dearer  than  his  life  ! 
Stay  not  to  cheer  thy  mother's  faltering  age, 
Though  her  heart  break  to  let  thee  go,  but  come  ! 
New  duty  calls  thee  into  larger  life  ! 
Dear  lips  that  cannot  speak  are  pleading,come  1 
Fulfill  my  manhood  !     Slip  the  leash  of  fate, 
And  rise  to  the  full  glory  of  womanhood  ! 
Dost  linger  still  ?  My  soul  is  crushed  with  pain. 
I  need  thee.     O  sustain  me  languishing 
In  this  unquenched  thirst  for  life  and  love! 


THE    POET  S    PROTHALAMION. 


Wake  not  despair  !     Fulfill  thy  plighted  troth  ! 

Couldst  thou  forget  ?  Or  dreamest  thou  that  love 

Is  dearer  in  the  bloom  than  in  the  gold 

Of  harvest  ?     Come  into  the  twilight,  down 

Among  the  thick-set  pines  and  cedar-clumps, 

And  I  will  pluck  a  twig,  and  whisper  low 

Its  deathless  message  sweet :  "  I  live  for  thee  !  " 

And  thou  wilt  lay  its  fadeless  leaves  among 

The  folds  of  drapery  soft,  nearest  thy  heart, 

And  thank  me  with  a  look  that  would  repay 

The  toil  of  an  archangel.      Here,  alone, 

Imparadised,  and  lip  to  lip,  none  near 

Save  God  to  hear  me  at  confessional, 

I'll  tell  thee  all  my  love,  and  thy  chaste  ear 

Will  love  the  tale,  and  hold  it  fair  and  pure 

As  that  white  lily  that  once  lay,  at  eve, 

Like  baby  lips  about  the  areole 

Of  each  white  breast,  when  thou  didst  dream 

of  lips 
That  yet  should  be,  and  thou  didst  breathe  a 

prayer 


57 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


That  brake  in  twain  the  alabaster-box 

Of  womanhood,  that  all  the  night  grew  sweet 

With  scent  of  spikenard  and  rich  attar  of  rose. 

Perchance  in  Passion's  aura  subtly  held, 

As  in  sweet  incense,  thou  wilt  feel  once  more 

Love's  warm  compulsion  unto  higher  things 

And  come  ! 

I  know  not  when  our  love  begun. 
I  only  know  we  met  beside  the  sea, 
In  that  vast  wilderness  of  stone,  whose  piles 
Behold  the  lordly  Hudson,  where  his  waves 
Make  young  the  hoar  Atlantic  and  upbear 
In  conscious  pride  the  navies  of  the  world, — 
Not  pleasure-seekers  bent  on  killing  time, 
Breasting  the  surf,  or  idling  on  the  beach, 
Nor  bent  on  conquest,  thou,  nor  vain  display, 
Nor  I  on  shekels  most  ignobly  got 
By  wedging  ten  gaunt  fingers  in  between 
The  toiler  and  the  eater  for  the  tithes 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


Unearned,  that  honest  toil  is  doomed  to  pay 
The  priests  of  Pluto  for  their  idle  keep. 
Four  study  walls  immured  us  from  the  world, 
Three  tiresome  flights  of  steps  above  the  din 
And  ceaseless  thunder  of  the  granite  streets, 
To  learned  seclusion,  where  old  Nestor  spake, — 
Our  Nestor, —  quiet  else  save  that  anon 
The   chime    of   Grace    church,    standing   near, 

stole  through 

The  open  casement.     Equal  thirst  for  truth 
Led  us  to  one  clear  fount.      We  sought  a  world 
Within  the  phantom  chambers  of  the  brain, 
A  language  sculptured  on  the  plastic  face. 
We  spake  ;  then,  first,  I  felt  that  I  had  swung 
Across  the  orbit  of  some  fair  new  star 
That  drew  me  with  compulsion  after  her 
To  girdle  her  afar  with  awed  delight. 
We  spake  again  ;  of  Avon's  deathless  bard, 
Of  Schiller,  the  beloved  Idealist, 
Of  Milton's  mighty  music,  and  the  steep 
Wild  journey  of  the  exiled  Florentine, 


59 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


Of  him  who  sung  of  Arthur  and  his  court, 
Of  him  who  told  Acadia's  exodus 
In  sweetest  verse,  of  Weimar's  eldest  bard, 
Immortal  Goethe-Faust,  and  many  more 
Of  humbler   strain,  but  fresh  from  the   World- 
heart, 

And  Art  drew  all  my  orbit  unto  thee. 
Again  we  spake  ;  and  chance — or,  haply,  Fate, — 
Drave  me  to  tear  aside  from  the  dead  years 
Their  veil,  and  thou  didst  see  my  panting  soul 
Beating  its  wings  against  the  mortal  bars 
Of  narrow  circumstance,  with  generous  aims, 
But  bruised  and  beaten  back  at  every  flight, 
And  thou  wert  gentle  as  one  knowing  pain — 
The  pain  of  endless  climbing,  endless  fall. — 
At  length  the  low  sweet  music  of  thy  voice 
Brake  through  the  discord,  and  my  wounds  were 
healed. 


60 


THE    POET  S    PROTHALAMION. 


Thou  gavest  a  talisman — a  card  and  verse — 
A  trifle,  but  the  world's  a  trifle  too  ! — 
"  A  flag  and  chart  to  guide  thy  daring  craft 
Across  Life's  stormy  sea."     And  then  I  knew — 
Not  pity,  pity  is  for  the  weak  and  blind, — 
But  sympathy,  magnanimous  and  kind. 
Thou  wert  mine  angel  in  a  time  of  need. 

Thus,  day  by  day,  in  sweet  communion,  fled 
The  dancing  Hours  adown  their  endless  cycles, 
From  dawn  to  dusk,  from  dusk  to  radiant  dawn, 
From  silent  greetings  unto  low  adieus, 
From  sad  adieus  to  early  greetings  glad, 
And  yet  we  dreamed  not  that  our  lives  were 

paired, 
Like  double  stars,  for  an  eternal  flight. 


61 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


But  once,  by  haunting  memories  impelled 
Of  one  false  maid — or  fickle  lass,  perchance, 
Youth  makes  a  mighty  grief  of  slender  stuff,— 
I  said  so  bitterly  :  "  I  lost  all  faith — " 
I  know  not  whither  tended  all  my  thought. 
I  saw  thy  look  of  infinite  pain,  and  read 
Thy  questioning  eyes,  but  answered  not.     Next 

morn, 
Thy  pain  found  speech,  and  plead  with  earnest 

lips 

And  face  aglow,  for  faith  in  woman's  love 
And  trust  in   woman's  truth,   though   one  were 

false. 

And,  looking  on  thy  tender  pleading  lips, 
And  searching  all  thy  soul  in  thy  clear  eyes, — 
How  bright,  how  near  they  beam,  dear  Heart, 

for  mine 

Do  mirror  all  their  tears  and  smiles  in  thine, 
And  see  the  laughing  cherubim,  who  stand, 


62 


THE    POETS    PROTHALAMION. 


As  in  two  gates  of  Eden  to  defend 

Our  love  from  rude  intrusion! — I  had  sworn 

Thou  wert  the  noblest  of  all  womankind, — 

The  gentlest  truest  woman  of  the  world. 

I  cast  mine  eyes  down,  smitten  with  quick  shame, 

And  uttered  broken  words  of  faith  new-born, 

Of  trust  rewakened  from  deep  lethargy, 

And  all  thy  pain  grew  into  radiance. 

I  felt  like  some  despairing  soul  that  clutched 

The  stole  of  its  good  angel,  and  so  climbed 

To  Heaven's  portals.     On  that  day  of  days, 

No  mild-eyed  saint  at  her  Marienbild, 

No  votary  of  the  blessed  burning  heart, 

Learned  sweeter  reverence  than  I  who  stood 

O'erwhelmed  by  the  eternal  womanhood 

That  trembled  on  thy  speaking  lips,  and  glowed 

In  thy  lithe  form — embodied  eloquence. 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


From  that  hour  unto  this  thou  wert  to  me 
A  world — a  hope  !  Thou  art  my  world.  With  thee 
Is  life  and  love,  though  all  were  dead  beside. 
Without  thee,  all  were  dead  and  cold  and  drear. 
Lay  thy  right  hand  upon  my  brow !  What  warmth 
Electric  !     Heaven  grant  it  ne'er  grow  cold — 
So  cold — and  lie  across  thy  cold  white  breast, 
Clasping  a  lily  white,  to  mock  my  soul 
With  resurrection  hopes,  for  hope  is  none 
With  my  White  Lily  withered  !     One  warm  kiss, 
One  touch  of  thy  soft  hand  on  cheek  and  brow 
Is  more  than  all  my  dreamland  interests  ! 
One  look  of  thy  confiding  eyes  in  mine 
Is  dearer  than  a  thousand  memories 
That  linger  in  the  chambers  of  the  dead  ! 


64 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


The  Hours  danced  on,  and,  arm  in  arm,  the 

Graces, 

The  sacred  Nine,  and  latest  born  of  Zeus, 
All-searching  Science  hundred-eyed,  and  Mirth, 
And  all  the  nymphs  of  sunlight,  wave  and  storm 
And  autumn  hills,  and  the  stern  Sisters  Three, 
Wove  magic  circles  narrowing  round  our  steps, 
And  when  of  all  the  Hours  the  saddest  came, 
She  found  us — lovers — Then,  Aufwiedersehen  ! 
We  could  not  wholly  part.     With  kindred  aims, 
Art-conquered  to  one  love  of  beauty,  bound 
By  sympathy  that  touched  life's  deepest  chords, 
Each  trusting  each  and  reverencing  each,  o'er 

such 
One  Hour  alone  hath  power, — life's  Tyrant  grim. 

Dost  thou  remember  the  wee  note  that  beg 
ged,— 

If  naught  with  thee  or  thine  should  tell  me  nay, — 
To  know  thee  longer  though  so  far  away  ? — 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


The  pen  dared  name  thee  gentlest,  truest,  best, 
Ere  yet  my  lips  dared  tell  thee  face  to  face  ! 

Hard  on  an  hour  of  banqueting  and  mirth 
Our  parting  came.     Down  by  the  sounding  sea, 
We  watched  the  silent  ships  that  o'er  the  wave 
Must  bear  thee  soon  to  old  New  England's  snows, 
And  thought  how  many  leagues  of  land  and  sea 
Must  drift  between  us  ere  the  morrow  eve. 
We  talked  of  home,  and  long-gone  happenings, 
And  sunny  Southland  travels,  spake  aught  else 
Save  what  the  heart  was  full  of.     Idle  words  ! 
For  Fate  is  Fate  !    Saidst  thou  indeed  farewell  ? 
Or  was  it  silence  trembling  ?     Ah,  farewell ! 
A  lingering  hand-clasp — and,  in  truth,  farewell ! 

Then  homeward  bound  beneath  the  evening 

star 

That  westward,  ever  westward  fled  !     Ah,  me ! 
I  had  no  home  !     The  mighty  instinct  woke 


66 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


That  drives  the  full-fledged  nestling  from  his 

down, 

And  fills  his  throbbing  throat  with  love-calls  loud. 
A  stranger,  I  returned  to  that  loved  spot 
That  once  was  home.     Yet,  though  I  sat  at  ease 
In  shady  haunts  well-loved  of  earlier  years, 
My  heart   was  restless   still,   and    yearned    for 

home, — 

A  vision  of  quiet  Paradise  with  thee, 
That  dimmed  all  nearer  joys  with  roseate  hues. 

Love  grows  by  silence  swifter  than  by  speech, 
And  oft  at  dead  of  night,  I  whispered  soft,— 
So  soft  that  only  mine  own  soul  could  hear  ;— 
"I  love  thee."  Once,  a  vision  white,  thou  earnest, 
A  Dream-Hypatia  with  hair  unbound 
And  white  arms  bare,  that  drew  me  gently  down 
And  set  dream  kisses  on  my  sleeping  lips 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


That  thence  grew  strong  to  tell  thee  my  young 

love. 

"  I'll  win  thee,  love  thee,  live  for  thee,"  I  said  ; 
And  thy  heart  answered  sweetly ;    "  Wait  and 

hope !  " 

A  fountain  in  the  desert,  fed  afar 
In   sun-kisst    ice    or    storm-drenched    highland 

plains, 

Once  burst  from  subterranean  caverns  deep, 
Wells  forth  perennial  in  the  waste  of  sand, 
And  builds  from  dearth  an  oasis  of  palm,  — 
A  smile  of  God, — a  kiss  of  Heaven,  set 
On  fevered  lips  that  thirsted  unto  death. 
And  such  is  love,  fed  from  the  heights  of  Being, 
The  hidden  currents  flowing  leagues  beneath 
A  waste  of  life,  when  lo  !  it  gushes  forth, 
And  all  the  waste  blooms  into  garden  !     Thus 
At  the  sweet  words  that  half  confessed  thy  love, 
My  soul  became  a  Garden  of  the  Gods, 
Where  no  base  thing  could  enter  in,  or  dwell. 


68 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


But  life  is  earnest !     And  far  be  it  from  us 
To  build  on  sentiment  alone  the  hope 
Of  happy  golden  weddings  and  the  shout 
Of  children's  children  in  our  ample  halls  ! 

A  dearer  thing  than  passion  and  more  strong 
Is  love, — not  that  blind  groping  thing  that  grasps 
The  wheel  of  Fate,  content  with  idle  chance, 
But  Love,  the  Argos-eyed,  that  sees  and  knows 
Life's  Inwardness,  nor  cheats  itself  with  dreams 
Of  swan-white  necks,  and  languishing  sweet  eyes? 
And  fadeless  cheeks,  and  sculptured  brows  of 

snow, 

And  faultless  breasts  that  quiver  at  each  step 
In  the  gay  dance,  and  finger-tips  that  run, 
Bejeweled,  lightly  o'er  the  sounding  keys. 


69 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Feeling  is  life,  and  love  is  life  intense, 
But  feeling  is  sharp  pain,  and  love  a  burning, 
That  wastes  and  withers  life  itself  to  ash, 
When  blindly  kindled  and  all  uncontrolled. 
Therefore  we  tore  the  bandage  from  Love's  eyes, 
And  gave  him  Reason  for  a  faithful  guide, 
And  laid  our  hearts  bare  to  his  searching  orbs, — 
Yea,  tore  aside  the  veil  from  inmost  soul,— 
That  no  dark  fold  might  prison  secret  night. 
Let  others  build  on  ever-shifting  sands  ! 
We  chose  to  build  Life's  during  pyramid 
Deep-based  in  rock  !     Let  others  hotly  chase 
Love's  phantom  in  the  dusk  of  young  romance, 
But  live  to  find  the  real  cold  and  dead, — 
A  long  repenting  in  the  halting  years, 
A  bitter  weeping  in  night-silences, 
Or  slow  decay  of  noble  humanhood 
That  half  besots  the  soul  to  low  content 
\Vith  passion's  burning  but  ephemeral  joys. — 


70 


THE    POET'S    PRQTHALAMION. 


We  chose  to  make  Life's  bridals  chaste  and  calm, 
Where  each  might  look  in  other's  eyes  and  say  ; 
"  I  know  thee  wholly  and  without  reserve." 
Romance  is  gone  at  sixty,  but  staid  love 
Is  not  unmeet  for  younger  blood.     The  dross 
Burns  out  in  Life's  hot  crucible,  and  leaves 
The  fleckless  gold.     Why  not  the  gold  at  first  ? 

Twelve    happy    moons     bore     love's     swift 

messages, 

"  Exchanging  thoughts,"  we  called  it  laughingly, 
Or,  "bartering  weeds  from  country  hillsides  steep 
For  flowers  of  city  growth."  And  thus  we  ranged 
O'er  every  field,  rejoiced  at  every  step, 
To  find  our  thoughts  and  lives  at  one,  attuned 
In  fixed  habit  to  sweet  harmony. 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


No  heavenward-pointing  spires,  nor  Sabbath- 
chimes 

Need  crush  to  silence  or  awaken  strife. 
No  priest  to  shrive,  no  pastor  nice  to  teach 
The  way  to  heaven  needed  we  who  heard 
The  voice  of  the  Indweller,  and  had  stood 
Beneath  the  stars  together.     Nor  could  aught 
Of  state  or  statesmanship  with  party  gall 
Embitter  Life's  full  cup,  nor  shame  our  pride 
In  the  Republic's  azure-fielded  flag 
Whose  bars  of  morning  herald  the  new  day 
Of  Liberty,  even  then  when  woman's  hand 
Grasps  to  the  wheel,  as  sure  it  must  and  will, 
When  earth  rolls  onward  into  perfect  day. 
Nor  could  the  tinsel  and  regalia 
Of  secret  orders  shut  within  our  hearts 
One  thought,  one  deed,  one  joy,  we  dared  not 

share. 

Nor  could  ambition  tear  our  lives  asunder, 
Nor  knowledge,  nor  blue  blood,  nor  lands,  nor 
gold, 


72 


THE    POETS    PROTHALAMION. 


Nor  honors  won,  nor  aught  that  blights  the  most, 
And  makes  the  marriage-vow  a  mockery. 
So  like,  we  marveled  how  two  souls  could  be 
So  like,  and  ever  growing  liker,  yet  unlike, 
Each    complementing    each,     and    both,    full- 
summed, — 
The  perfect  being  ! 

When,  at  length,  we  met, 

And  autumn  leaves  were  falling,  and  the  hearth 
Roared  cheery  to  the  sighing  winds  outside, 
And  the  long  evenings  lulled  the  earth  to  rest, 
And  hours  ran  swift  away  in  golden  sands, 
Fate  turned  her  glass.     We  sat  together  glad. 
"  Thou  badst  me  wait  and  hope.    Canst  tell  me 

more  ? 
I  hoped  and  waited.     Is  it  long  enough  ?  " 


73 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


I  said.      I  looked,  and  thy  lips  trembled  sweet ; 
"  Yea,  long  enough  !  "  Thy  right  hand  stretched 

to  me. 

I  clasped  it.     Our  lips  met.     I  held  thee  close 
To  my  wild  throbbing  heart ;     "  Till   Death  us 

part  !  " 

This  was  the  soul's  true  nuptials,  all  alone 
With  God  for  witness. 

Since  when  we  have  known 
No  law  but  Love's,  and  thy  soul's  purity, 
That  lifts  mine  own  to  ever  newer  heights, 
Interprets  it  ;  "  Whate'er  is  pure  and  good, 
That  makes  love  richer  nor  abates  nor  mars 
Our  chaste  Ideal,  shall  be  free  as  air 
For  thee  and  me.'*     Yet  happy  he  for  whom 
The  tarrying  Hours  withold  the  marriage  morn 
A  while, — not  all  too  long  till  the  tired  heart 
Grow  sick   with   waiting, — for    Love's   law    is 
chaste, — 


74 


THE    POETS    PROTHALAMION. 


Not  the  sweet  anarchy  of  passion  freed, 
Nor  license  bitter-sweet, — and  self-avenging, 
And  stronger  than  our  helmed  Themis  dreamed 
When  founding  states.     Ay,  happy  he  for  whom 
Love's  daily  discipline  of  self-denial 
Grows  sweet,  ere  Themis  leads  the  blushing  bride 
Into  the  nuptial  chamber,  and  stands  guard 
With  her  drawn  sword  o'er  wedded  privacy  ! 
Thrice  happy  he  who  bides  his  season  well, 
Nor  hopes  for  violets  in  December's  flaw, 
And  apples  in  the  snow  of  orchard-blooms  ! 

Love  hastes  not,  but  unfolds  her  loveliness, 
A  modest  rose  that  hides  her  virgin  heart 
In  tangled  frets  of  emerald  moss,  till  wooed 
By  the  dewy  breath  and  kiss  of  morning.  Thus, 
Ere  we  had  learned  her  thousand  dear  delights, 
Fate  tore  us  far  asunder. 

Then  fair  dreams, 

Hope-winged  and  gracious,  hovered  nightly  o'er 
Our  distant  couches,  or,  delighted,  trooped 
From  room  to  room,  with  dreamland  effluence 


75 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Flooding  the  day.  When  snow  lay  on  the  roof, 
And  in  the  Dovecote's  haunted  chamber  roared 
The  hearth-stone  wide,  and  ample  comfort 

gleamed 

On  wall  and  ceiling,  earnest  thou  to  me 
Familiar  sweet.     And  once  the  vision  plead, 
All  clinging  lip  to  lip,  with  tender  sighs, 
To  prove  me  woman's  love,  and  ease  the  pain 
Of  pent-up  passion,  yet  did  quickly  turn 
All  sad  away  and  weeping  make  complaint ; 
"  Ah,  me  !  This  heart  is  sealed  !  Break  thou  the 

seals, 

And  bid  its  living  waters  flow  to  thee  ! 
I  cannot  love  thee,  Love,  till  thou  love  me  ! 
Fell  Eden's  fruitage  down  before  thy  feet, 
'Twere   little    prized !     The    winning  makes  it 

sweet!  " 
And,  when  I  clasped  thee  in  my  passionate  arms 


THE    POET  S    PROTHALAMION. 


As  sweet  Francesca  with  immortal  love 
Clung  to  her  lover  in  the  dusks  of  Hell 
When  storm-swift  shrieking  blasts  tormenting 

drave 

The  guilty  shades  athwart  the  dark  abyss, 
They  fell  deceived  and  empty  on  my  breast 
And  I  awoke.     And  thus  from  dream  to  dream 
With  endless  yearning  fled  the  desolate  hours, 
Till    thou    and    I   were  dreams,   I    thine,   thou 

mine,— 

Thou  wert  the  block  of  Parian  marble  white, 
My  love,  the  sculptor.     I  did  dream  thee  fair, 
And  thou  art  fair,  not  like  a  sculptor's  dream 
With  fixed  eyes  and  bosom  motionless, — 
A  faultless  frozen  grace, — but  Love's  rich  dream 
Where  every  look  and  every  pose  is  fair, 
And  all  is  life  and  soul  and  eloquence. 


77 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


When  next  we  met,  the  strawberries  kissed 

our  lips 

With  fragrant  greeting,  and  the  changeful  May 
Was  slipping  into  June,  and  our  young  lives 
Were  slipping  into  June — the  month  of  roses — 
What  wonder  then,  if  roses  burst  to  bloom 
Imperishable  as  memory  and  fair 
As  a  child's  soul ! 

The  choicest  rose  that  bloomed, 
Was  love — not  love  of  self  nor  love  of  each, 
But  love  of  one  not  each,  but  all  of  both — 
Love's  soul  embodied  into  tendrils  weak 
To  cling  with  helpless  wants  about  our  lives, 
And  link  them  with  the  touch  of  baby  lips— 
A  sweet  wild  rose  that  clambered  o'er  our  lives 
With  warm  profusion  in  the  dew  of  June, 
Her  leaves  pearl-treasured,  and  her  chalices 
Pale  pink  with  beaded  gossamers  festooned, 
In  innocent  boldness  peeping  forth  at  will, 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


God-honoring  and  not  ashamed  of  Nature, 
Nor  envying  hot-house    queens    whose   double 

hearts, — 
A  splendid  sepulcher, — enfold  no  fruit. 

Through    long     day-dreaming    fair    familiar 

grown, 
The  Mother-Heart  found  voice,  and  thou  didst 

hold 

My  head  upon  thy  breast  all  tenderly  ; 
"  Some  day  a  child  shall  nestle  where  thou  liest 
And  feel  mine  arm's  sustaining  warm  as  thou  !  " 
I  looked  with  questioning  joy  to    thee  :   "Our 

child  ?  " 

"  Yea,  thine  and  mine,  for  I  have  loved  it  long  !  " 
May  He  whose  dearest  name  is  Love,  fulfill 
These  dreams  !  'Tis  long  since  then,  and  yet  we 

dream 
The  same  dear  dreams,  and  talk  of  days  to  come 


79 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


When  suitors  bashful  come  to  woo  our  girls 
And  our  own  eldest  brings  his  chosen  bride 
For  welcome,  or  yet  later  full  of  pride 
Brings  home  a  sunny  child  all  coos  and  smiles, 
And  laugh  that  lovers  whose  far  marriage  morn 
Still  sleeps  unmarked  in  Time's  unemptied  urn 
Should  talk  of  children's  children  and  gray  hairs. 
Yet  still  may  He  fulfill,  who  love  ordained, 
These  later  dreams,  for  love  is  infinite 
And  lives  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
A  triune  omnipresent  fulness— Life. 

I  laid  my  hand  upon  its  resting-place 
As  now — no  purer  touch  was  his  that  spake 
"  Forbid  them  not "  andblessedeach  innocent ! — 
I  breathed  a  burning  prayer — such  prayers  do 
make 


80 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


Heaven's  harmony — where  words  are  none,  but 

soul 

Is  large  with  thankfulness — that  begs  no  boon, 
But  overflows  with  a  diviner  sense 
Of  life's  sufficiency — the  soul's  content, 
And  then  I  spake  ;  "  God  helping  thee  and  me, 
Thy  child  shall  be  as  pure  as  heaven's  breath 
On  our  chaste  brows,  not  gotten  in  amorous  play 
Of  oft-repeated  lust,  a  child  of  chance, 
Chance  loved,  chance  hated, — oft  fore-doomed 

to  death, 

Or  hateful  vice  more  terrible  than  death, 
The  helpless  victim  of  a  mighty  sin 
That  hides  its  loathesomeness  in  robes  of  law  ! 
Nor  shalt  thou  be  a  slave  to  my  swift  wish  ! 
God  maketh  thee,  not  me,  thine  arbiter. 
Thou  lovest  me — 'tis  all  my  soul  dare  ask — • 


81 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


And  thou  shalt  be  a  virgin  still,  though  wife, 
Till  thine  own  heart  shall  plead  for  motherhood ! " 
And  thou  wert  glad.  A  new  strange  light  beamed 

forth 

From  thy  rich  eyes.     That  ghastly  shadow  fled 
That  frights  a  noble  woman's  soul  whene'er 
She  dreams  of  marriage,  lest  the  altar  be 
Belial's  and  not  Hymen's.     "  May  it  be  ! 
God  helping  us"  thou  saidst ;  "  I    thank  thee 

much  !  " 

But  sweetest  thanks  were  tears  wept  silently. 
After  long  pause :  "  O  thou  who  lovest  much, 
One  boon  I  ask.  This  hand  whose  touch  I  love, 
Whose  touch  is  love,  O  pledge  me  that  it  ne'er 
Shall  strike  the  tender  flesh  of  that  sweet  child  !  " 
A  word — a  look — and  thou  didst  lift  my  hand 
To  thy  warm  lips  and  cover  it  with  kisses. 


82 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


Then,  good  night !     A  kiss  on  finger-tips — 
A  white  hand  wafted  in  the  dark — good  night ! 

How  like  a  drear  November  day  hath  been 
Our  life !  A  gleam  of  sun  through  azure  rifts 
Drunk  in  by  frosted  leaves  that  huddled  close 
To  windward  of  thick  hedges,  and  in  beds 
Of  purling  brooks,  and  then  dull  lead  for  hours  ! 

When  next  we  bade  good-morrow  and  were 

glad, 

Mid-summer's  sun  was  ushering  in  the  day, 
And  dull  blue  lay  the  far-off  woods  scarce  seen 
Athwart  the  quivering  atmosphere  that  burned 
The  brittle  stubble  of  broad  harvest  fields 
And  rolled  the  banners  of  the  tasseled  corn 
And  made  an  oven  of  the  cracking  soil. 
We  fled  to  the  cool  margin  of  the  Lake 
And  the  White  City  for  a  sennight's  rest 
In  that  world's  Dream  of  dreams — the  home  of 

Art. 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


We  stood  on  the  beach  at  eve  and  watched 

the  waves 

Come  fawning  o'er  the  sand  to  lick  our  feet, 
But  all  the  while  our  thoughts  went  sailing  on 
Across  the  waters  till  their  dark  green  verge 
Bounded  the  blue  of  heaven.     'Twas  Life's  sea 
We  traversed  purple-flecked  with  shadows  swift, 
Pale  green  with  spots  of  sun,  or  white  with  crests, 
Till  her  far  marge  met  the  eternal  blue, 
And  we  forgot  the  creeping  waves.     At  morn 
Upon  the  Lake's  calm  bosom  rippleless 
We  rode,  and  saw  afar  the  wonderland 
Whose  softened  splendors  rose  above  the  waves 
And  hung:  beneath  the  waves — a  double  East 

O 

Outrivaling  the  East  —  alas  that  flame 
Devoured  her  mighty  pillared  gate ! — Spread  out 
Before  us  lay  Man's  world,  behind  us  Nature, 
And  both  our  home.     We   entered    the  grand 
Court, 


84 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


We  saw,  we  heard, — no  words  can  utter  what, — 
We  breathed  in  life  and  beauty  with  each  breath, 
Nor  asked  of  whence  nor  whither.  A  whole 

world 

Had  heaped  her  choicest  treasures  richly  here 
Till  the  stunned  senses  ached  with  eager  seeing  ! 
But  whether  resting  in  rose  gardens  cool, 
Or  wandering  mid  palms  and  orchids  rare, 
Or  tasting  luscious  fruits  from  the  Golden  Gate, 
Or  listening  music  by  the  broad  lagoon 
Where  the  bold  fountain  triton-like  arose, 
Or  watching  Spanish  sailors  tanned  and  brown 
Reel  on  the  deck  of  Santa  Maria, 
Or  conning  La  Rabida's  wonders  old, 
Or  loitering  amicl  the  dust  and  mould 
Of  ancient  sepulchers  with  skulls  and  bones, 
Archaic  pottery  and  carved  stones, 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


And  curious  bronzes  with  the  dead  entombed 
And  after  mouldering  centuries  exhumed, 
Or  gazing  on  some  giant  masterpiece, 
Bust  or  sarcophagus,  or  statue  scarred, 
Cathedral  altar,  or  restored  facade, 
Or  bronze  Augustus  or  Minerva  helmed, 
Or  wild  Bacchante  nude  with  streaming  hair, 
Or  lingering  with  mute  wonder  nigh  to  tears 
Before  some  canvas  where  the  master's  brush 
Made  suffering  immortal,  or  portrayed 
The  universal  heart-throbs  of  the  race — 
All  bound  us  closer,  for  two  souls  are  knit 
By  thought's  community.     Daily  we  learned 
In  thousand  linked  experiences  one  truth, 
To  give  is  blest  and  to  receive  is  blest, 
But  doubly  blest  is  sharing  ! 

Soul  of  Love, 
Thy   name    is    sharing !     One    wild    strawberry 

shared 

Is  richer  than  a  lap-full  eaten  lone, 
With  no  loved  lips  to  grace  the  ruddy  feast, 


86 


THE    POETS    PROTHALAMION. 


And  water  quaffed  from  hands  that  dipped  it  up 
From  gurgling  wayside  springs  for  love's  sweet 

sake 

Is  cooler  to  parched  lips  than  unshared  ices 
Though  pure  Olympian  nectar  sparkled  there  ! 
Aye  when  Self  waxes  Love  must  slowly  wane, 
And  where  Love  enters  Self  is  quickly  slain. 

Love  watcheth  ever,  and  my  sentinel  eyes 
Would  never  lose  thee  though  we  wandered  wide 
Adown  the  sculptured  aisles  of  Italy 
Or  in  and  out  the  booths  of  La  belle  France. 
I  caught  the  shimmer  of  delighted  eyes 
Across  Carrara  marbles  that  did  seem 
Transparent  breathing  warm.  I  caught  the  gleam 
Of  dark  hair  floating  by  green  Latian  bronzes. 
I  saw  thee  pass  the  Flowery  Kingdom's  quaint 
And  strange  monotony  of  urn  and  vase. 
I  watched  thee  glide  among  cold  Russia's  furs 
Or  gaze  on  costumings  of  fabric  rare 
From  Britain's  restless  hundred-handed  looms. 
I  watched  thee  winding  in  and  out  where'er 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Thy  eager  fancy  led  in  palaces 
Where  art  had  wedded    comfort  and  displayed 
Her  nuptial  gifts  and  gorgeous  dowery, 
When  once,  half  startled,  thinking  thyself  lost, 
Thine  eyes  sought  me.     Lo  !     I  was  watching 

near, 

Not  with  cold  spying  eyes,  but  tender  glad, 
As  if  their  orbs  had  power  to  guide  and  guard. 
Then  wert  thou  safe  indeed  !  Though  wandering 

far 
Thou  couldst  not  drift  beyond  my  faithful  eyes  ! 

At  length  grown  weary  with  the  endless  maze, 
When  night  had  lulled  the  city's  mighty  heart, 
\Ve  wandered  down  her  quiet  avenues, 
And  here  and  there  on  porticoes  and  steps 
Sat  seeming  happy  families — God  knows, 
Who  looks  behind  the  scenes,  what  tragedies 
A  quiet  face  can  cover  and  what  woes 
Unspeakable  and  sobbing  threnodies 
A  suffering  heart  can  bury — but  not  one 


88 


THE    POET  S    PROTHALAMION. 


In  housed  comfort  knew  so  dear  a  home 
As  we  beneath  those  star-sown  distant  skies 
Unsheltered  save  by  love.     Thus  hand  in  hand 
With  interchanged  confessions  murmured  low 
We  reached  a  slender  lodge.   I  kissed  thy  brow, 
I  would  have  set  a  crown  there,  but  gross  gold 
Were  far  too  cheap,  and  I  was  poor  in  gold. 
And  so  a  long  good-night,  my  crownless  queen  ! 

Thrice  through  the  rifted  clouds  hath  burst 

the  sun 
Since  then.    Thrice  have  I  crowned  thee  queen, 

and  set 

A  wreath  invisible  upon  thy  brow. 
Thrice  have  I  greeted  thee  with  silent  lips 
And  thrice  alas  have  waited  dreary  months 
Heart-hungered  for  a  touch  of  thy  white  hand, 
And  saw  but  letters,  or  a  faded  rose, 
And  heard  thy  voice  in  nightly  dreams  alone. 


89 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Four  summers  thus  have  bloomed  since  first 

we  met, 

And  yet  our  life  is  love's  pure  idyl  still 
Whose  dear  simplicity  and  calm  content 
Grow  strong  with  years.     No  restless  yearning 

drives 

Life's  currents  from  their  fixed  and  easy  course 
Through  fruitful  valleys  and  broad  meadowlands 
To  mingle  in  the  all  engulfing  sea  ! 
But  once  thy  soul  was  burdened  with  strong  grief. 
Thou  couldst   do  naught  but  weep.        A  long 

despair, 
Not  thine,  filled  all  thy  home  with  the  shadow 

of  death. 

Thou  wert  so  crushed,  so  like  a  bruised  reed 
Whose  light  crest  sinks  beneath  the  winds  of 

fate, 


9° 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


And  yet  my  lips  were  dumb.  What  are  poor  words 

But  rain-drops  falling  on  a  broken  roof  ? 

They  make  a  dismal  music  in  the  soul, 

But  the  dull  shadow  sits  and  grins  and  leers. 

Grief  is  ne'er  healed  by  words.     I  only  wept. 

We  wept  together  till  the  shadow  fled. 

And  then,  so  full  of  tender  thankfulness, 

So  self-reproaching  that  thy  grief  should  mar 

Our  few  swift  moments,  thou  didst  kiss  away 

My  tears,  though   thine   own  lashes  hung  with 

pearls, 
And  thine  own  cheeks  were  wet  that  touched 

my  brow. 

But  for  the  rain  bright  Iris  were  not  born  ; 
But  for  wet  lashes  smiles  were  meaningless  ; 
And  they  who  never  wept  have  never  loved. 


91 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


But  when  I  blamed  thee   not  but  loved  thee 

more 
For  weeping  with   thee,   smiles   brake  through 

the  tears 

Like  mellow  sunrise  on  a  night  of  storm, 
And  in  hope's  radiant  dawn  we  built  anew 
Our  world.  We  talked  of  home,  the  dearest  word 
Of  all  the  Saxon  tongues, — the  word  whose  charm 
Has  kept  inviolate  love's  precincts  fair 
And  builded  deathless  realms  where  men  are  men 
And  nursed  the  heroes  whose  strong  arms  have 

won 

And  guarded  freedom  ! — Our  own  home  should  be 
A  Saxon  home  with  all  its  warmth  of  love, 
Secluded  and  sequestered  from  the  world, 
But    broad-hearthed,    open-doored     to     faithful 

friends, 

And  courteous  to  the  stranger,  a  calm  rest 
Amid  the  toil  of  life,  where  the  tired  soul 


92 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


Grows  strong  for  each  to-morrow,  a  retreat 
For  baffled  hearts  to  throb  out  their  despair 
On  love's  warm  bosom — a  contented  spot 
Whose  simple  furnishings,  yet  elegant, 
Wear  not  the  life  away  with  needless  toil, 
Where  art  adorns  but  not  usurps  true  use, 
Nor  beauty  yields  to  garish  novelty 
At  beldame  Fashion's  fickle  nod  and  beck. 
"  Our  home  shall  be  the  setting  of  the  gem," 
I  said  ;  "  nor  richer  than  the  stone  itself, 
For  diamonds  are  not  set  in  massive  gold." 
"Nor  thou  and  I  the  only  gems,"  thou  saidst ; 
"  Cornelia's    soul    is    mine !       Give     me     her 

jewels  ! — 

One  full  rich  cluster, — Love's  own  coronet ! — 
And  what  if  they  inherit  little  gold  ? 
Manhood  and  womanhood  is  wealth  enough 
To  live  in  honor.     Toil  can  win  the  rest. 
Had  our  own  mothers'  hearts  closed  to  so  soon, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  had  blessed  them  for  our  life. 
Thank  God,  thou  wilt  not  now  deny  me  this, 
Nor  tyrant-like  compel  these  hands  to  slay 
My  unborn  darlings  !  " 


93 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


"  Mine  own  dream  of  home  ! 
May  these  things  be  !  Long  years  ago,  when  first 
The  great  hope  dawned  in  my  young  manhood's 

soul, 

That  childish  lips  should  lisp  me  papa  sweet, 
And  creasy  arms  should  clasp  about  my  neck, 
And  cheeks  should  nestle  in  my  whiskered  face 
For  goodnight  kisses,  a  great  horror  dawned 
Like  freezing  sun-dogs  with  the  winter's  sun, 
Lest  she,  whom  I  had  loved  as  man  loves  once 
And  never  loves  again,  might  cheat  my  heart 
And  leave  our  hearth  a  desert.     When  our  lips 
Had  trembled  into  vows,  thy  heart,  I  knew, 
Held  in  its  loves  my  life's  fulfillment.     Then, 
That  horror  climbed  my  lips ;  but  I  spake  not. 
How  could  I  speak  that  dread,and  love  thee  still  ? 


94 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


How  dared  I  ask  without  impeaching  thee 
The  pledge  that  thine  own  hands  should  never 

slay 

Our  child?  But  others  !  Ah,  Thou  art  not  such  ! 
I  know  thy  soul  !  But  yet,  one  word  from  thee, — 
One  little  word, — to  drive  that  shadow  back. 
I  crave  assurance  where  my  soul  is  sure. 
Thy  pleading  tells  me  all.     And,  Love,  believe, 
I  yearn  to  see  thine  eyes  and  lips  and  brow 
Reimaged  in  our  children  manifold. 

"Andthinkestthou  that  I  love  thine  eyes  less  ? 
But  motherhood  asks  not  of  eyes  and  brows, 
But  presses  the  soft  lips  to  her  full  breast 
Rejoiced  in  giving  life.     I  will  not  cheat 
My  heart  of  this  one  joy,  nor  question  long 
If  the  lips  be  thine  or  mine,  but  only  ours  ! " 


95 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


"  Sweet  lips,  and  sweeter  privilege  to  touch 
Its  areoled  fulness  warm !  Would  that  mine  own 
Were  worth  to  touch   them  !     Shall  our  child's 
indeed?" 

"  How  could  I  cheat  those  lips  of  their  true 

food? 

Lo,  here  !  God  gave  me  these  two  sacred  founts. 
He  gave  me  womanhood.     Then  shame  on  her 
Who  leaves  to  kine  the  task  her  God  assigned. 
She  is  but  half  a  mother  and  full  cheeks 
And  virgin  bust  bought  with  an  empty  heart 
Are  costly  beauties.     Father  of  my  child 
To  be,  my  noble  Lover,  speak  to  me  ! 
Tell  me  that  motherhood  is  more  to  thee 
Than  virgin  bloom !     Or,  if  thy  lips  are  mute, 
Take  what  thine  eyes  are  pleading  and  thy  lips 
But  now  and  oft  ere  now  have  chastely  begged  ! 
Touch  these  white  yoked  lilies  that  still  sleep  ! 


96 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


Thou  wilt  find  speech  !  "  Thou  saidst,and  drewst 

aside 

The  drapery  from  thy  bosom.    My  lips  touched 
Its  faultless  argent.     With  thrice  happy  arms 
Then  didst  thou  clasp  me,  and  I  heard  thy  heart 
Beat  loud  and  fast.  But  neither  spake  nor  stirred. 
At  length  I  slept.     When  I  awoke  thy  lips 
But  pleaded  ;     "  Bless  me  !  "   and  I   answering 

spake : 

"Poor  words  are  mine  !  "  And  then  with  reve 
rent  lips  ; 

"God  keep  thee  ever  pure  as  thou  art  now  ! 

God  bless  thy  mind  to  ever  nobler  seeing ! 

God  bless  thy  heart  to  ever  nobler  feeling ! 

God  bless  thy  soul  to  ever  nobler  choosing ! 

God  lift  thee  into  noblest  womanhood  ! 

God  crown  thee  with  thrice  blessed  mother 
hood  !  " 


97 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


What  makes  thee  tremble  so  ?      Is  it  memory 
Of  that  last  scene  so  weary  months  agone, 
But  dear  and  vivid  as  but  yesternight  ? 
Why  dost  thou  cling  with  such  unwonted  warmth 
Upon  me,  dewing  neck  and  face  with  sighs 
That  shake  thy  bosom  ?     Is  it  ecstasy, 
Or  some  new  holy  wish  that  struggles  up 
To  fill  thine  eyes  with  pleading  ?  Ay,  they  plead 
For  love's  sweet  growth  to  perfect  flower  and 

fruit  ! 

Then  come,  sweet  Love,  my  bride  and  wife  to  be, 
For  love  halts  not  in  chaste  development, 
But  mounts  from  grace  to  grace,  from  boon   to 

boon, 

Aspiring  ever  unto  newer  heights. 
Come  thou,  my  Queen,  fulfill  thy  plighted  troth  ! 
I'll  lead  thee  proudly  to  the  altar,  Love, 
And  boldly  claim  thee  mine  before  the  world  ! 
Or,  if  more  quiet  nuptials  please  thee  best, 


98 


THE    POET'S    PROTHALAMION. 


I'll  take  thee  lightly  from  thy  father's  hand 

Beneath  the  mistletoe  where  first  our  lips 

Consented  unto  kisses  and  we  loved  ! 

This  ring  be  symbol  of  the  gracious  bond 

That  makes  us  one,  not  by  obedience, 

But  by  strong  love  !     Then  may  the  burthened 

years 

Be  kind,  and  when  life's  winter  falls  at  last, — 
As  fall  it  must,  with  snow  on  our  faint  brows, — 
Like  tired  children  croon  us  into  sleep 
Together,  sparing  each  one  deathless  grief ! 


99 


I   LOVE  THEE. 

¥ 

T  love  thee  ! 

But  only  the  drooping  lids  that  fell 
Over  her  beautiful  eyes  could  tell 
The  sweet  unrest 
Of  her  maiden  breast 
While  mute  on  her  lips  the  long  farewell 
Hung  tender  and  tremblingly. 

I  love  thee  ! 

But  only  the  seething  waters  heard 
In  their  starlit  play  the  whispered  word, 

For  the  harbor  bar 

Lay  faint  and  far 

Like  a  lessening  cloud-bank  huge  and  blurred 
On  the  far  off  edge  of  the  sea. 


100 


I    LOVE    THEE. 


I  love  thee! 

The  pine-trees  sighed  in  the  autumn  wind 
With  a  yearning  sad  and  undefined, 

And  her  rock  retreat 

At  their  mossy  feet 

Dreamed  nightly  of  one  left  far  behind 
O'er  leagues  of  twilight  sea. 

I  love  thee  ! 

Her  lips  grew  warm,  and  her  eyes  grew  bright, 
Her  soul  grew  strong  in  its  new  delight, 

For  winged  words 

Like  messenger  birds 
Came  flitting  across  the  trackless  night 
From  over  the  restless  sea. 


101 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


I  love  thee  ! 

She  came  from  over  the  surging  main, 
A  turtle-dove  urged  by  love's  sweet  pain 

To  her  distant  mate 

Left  desolate 

Where  the  dusky  woods  at  eve  complain 
Afar  from  the  sounding  sea. 

I  love  thee ! 

Not  only  the  drooping  lids  that  fell 
Over  her  beautiful  eyes  could  tell 

Love's  perfect  rest, 

But  lips  were  pressed 
That  never  again  should  say  farewell 
Till  mute  by  Life.'s  sad  sea. 


102 


'•  MY  OWN  WEE  WINSOME 
DEARIE." 


/~"\  Scotland's  tongue  so  winning  sweet, 

So  lyric,  blithe  and  cheery, 

I'd  need  thy  matchless  charms  to  greet 

My  own  wee  winsome  dearie  ! 

My  lassie  is  a  winsome  thing, 
A  darling  bonnie  creature, 

With  eyes  that  smile  and  lips  that  sing, 
Matchless  in  every  feature. 

My  lassie,  she  is  far  away, 

And  I  with  longing  weary 

Still  eager  wait  the  distant  day 
That  takes  me  to  my  dearie ! 


103 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


O  winsome,  wee,  my  bonnie  lass, 

Thy  ingle  blazes  cheery  ! 
O  call  me  to  thy  side,  my  lass, 

To  be  for  aye,  my  dearie  ! 

I've  stood  with  thee  in  Summer's  sun, 
Neath  Winter's  skies  all  dreary, 

But  all  the  seasons  are  as  one 

When  thou'rt  my  winsome  dearie  ! 

I've  stood  with  thee  in  hours  of  mirth, 
When  joy  smiled  on  us  fairly, 

I've  wept  with  thee  when  "earth  to  earth" 
With  grief  oppressed  thee  sairly  ! 

And  so  with  earnest  lips  we  twain 
Have  plighted  vows  together  — 

Ah  why  should  Fate  so  kind  remain, 
Yet  rudely  break  love's  tether 


104 


"MY    OWN    WEE    WINSOME    DEARIE.1 


And  set  two  mated  souls  adrift 
Upon  the  world  so  dreary  ! 

And  yet,  I  thank  her  for  the  gift !  — 
Though  parted,  let's  be  cheery  ! 

When  I  recall  the  parting  smiles, 

The  eyes  that  brimmed  so  teary, 

I'd  walk  a  hundred  long  Scotch  miles 
To  call  thee  once  my  dearie ! 


I05 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  PRESSED 
FLOWERS. 


A  S  she  turned  the  leaves  of  a  volume  old 

With  Dante  tracing  the  abysm  of  Hell 
Out  of  the  folds  of  that  book  of  gold 

A  withered  cluster  of  heart's-ease  fell. 

She  started  —  and  smiled  through  the  gather 
ing  tears, — 

Down  fell  at  her  feet  the  volume  great, 
With  the  seven-fold  woe  the  Bard  uprears 

In  his  blighting  vision  of  Christian  hate. 


1 06 


THE   MESSAGE   OF    PRESSED    FLOWERS. 


She  smiled  —  for  that  rude  disordered  dream 
Which  the  listening  ages  miscalled  divine, 

With  its  lurid  dusk  and  its  dusky  gleam 

Dissolved  and  paled  in  her  love's  sunshine. 

She  wept —  our  deepest  joys  bring  tears  — 

As  she  thought  of  a  vow    and    a    maiden 

prayer 
Breathed  long  ago  in  the  dead,  dead  years 

When  she    gathered    the    heart's-ease    and 
pressed  it  there. 

She  tenderly  laid  them  on  her  breast, 

And  a  tear  fell  soft  on  their  withered  leaves 

They  brought  her  a  vision,  but  not  unblest  ; 

She    was    dreaming    of   love   and    summer 
eves. 


107 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES, 


In  that  warm  sweet  June  so  long  agone, 

With  the  lengthening  shadows  at  set  of  sun, 

She  stood  once  more  on  the  old,  old  lawn, 
And  gathered  the  flowers  one  by  one. 

Under  the  light  of  the  vesper  stars 

In  the  perfect  silence  of  twilight  hours, 

Under  the  sunset's  purple  bars 

She    breathed    this    vow    to    the    listening 
flowers  : 

"  No  vaunting  rider  of  gallant  steeds, 
No  heartless  lord  of  a  foreign  land, 

No  holder  of  stocks  and  title-deeds, 

Is  the  hero  that  wins  my  heart  and  hand; 


1 08 


THE    MESSAGE    OF    PRESSED    FLOWERS. 


"  But  noble  and  free  and  broad  of  mind, 

With  a  great  heart  beating  for  Truth  and 

Right 
And  a  voice  to  plead  for  humankind 

In  their  restless  struggling  for  freedom  and 
light."  . 

She  kissed  the  flowers  and  caressed  their  leaves 
With  a  reverent  touch  of  her  pure   white 

hand 
And  whispered  as  one  who  half  believes 

That  the  fair   sweet  creatures   can  under 
stand  ; 

"  I  will  fold  you  away  with  my  thoughts  of  him, 
I  will  make  you  warders  of  love  and  faith, 

While  I  wait  with  a  virgin  troth  to  him 

Though  waiting  and  hoping  end  in  death  !  " 


109 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


As  she  turned  the  leaves  of  the  volume  old 
With  Dante  threading  the  deeps  of  Hell, 

And  out  of  the  folds  of  that  book  of  gold 
The  withered  cluster  of  heart's-ease  fell, 

She  smiled —  and  wept  —  for  the  years  that  fled, 
Had  ended  their  ward  in  a  trothal  day, 

And  she  sent  her  "  thoughts  "  with  those  flowers 

dead 
To  her  hero  lover  far  away. 

"Take  them,"  she   murmured,   "my    own,   my 

Love, 

I  gathered  them  long  ago  for  Thee  : 
Though  I  knew  Thee  not,  my  own,  my  Love, 
My  heart  was  dreaming,  —  yes,  dreaming  of 
Thee." 


no 


WHITHER  AH   WHITHER? 


\I7HITHER,  ah  whither  ?     I  stand  alone 
*  *       Facing  the  years  that  are  to  be  ! 
Ah  me  !     Is  there  none, 

Not  even  one, 

Who  will  stand  by  my  side  and  speak  to  me 
And  lead  the  way  through  the  desert  lone  ? 

Whither,  ah  whither  ?     The  way  is  dark 
Out  through  the  years  that  are  to  be ! 
Ah  me  !     Is  there  none, 

Not  even  one, 

Whose  presence  shall  be  as  a  soul  to  me 
To  make  the  desert  a  sunlit  park  ? 

Whither,  ah  whither  ?     The  end  is  far 

Out  in  the  years  that  are  to  be  ! 
Ah  me  !  Is  there  none, 

Not  even  one, 

Who  will  reach  a  strong  pure  hand  to  me 
To  guide  and  guard  like  a  faithful  Lar  ? 


in 


THY    HEAVEN. 


T  F  thoughts  of  me  are  a  heaven  to  thee 
Too  dear  to  leave  for  another 

With  gates  of  pearl  and  a  crystal  sea — 
A  reward  for  holy  pother, 

I'll  build  thee  a  throne  for  thy  royal  own 

In  the  palace  of  my  soul, 
And  my  heart  shall  be  for  a  blood-red  zone 

To  girdle  thy  milk-white  stole, 


112 


THY    HEAVEN. 


And  the  orbs  of  my  eyes  in  warm  surprise 
Shall  be  jewels  upon  thy  crown 

That  beggar  the  miters  in  paradise 
By  the  elders  of  God  laid  down, 

And  my  breath  shall  be  as  a  wind  from  the  sea 
That  winnows  the  clouds  away, 

And  thy  palace  and  thee  shall  the  genii  see 
Deep-bathed  in  a  fadeless  day. 

Ay !  my  soul  shall  be  a  heaven  to  thee 
Too  dear  to  name  with  that  other, 

That  still  with  its  pearls  and  crystal  sea 
Must  be  won  by  a  holy  pother ! 


I   WOULD    THAT  MY    LIPS 
COULD    UTTER. 


T  would  that  my  lips  could  utter 
1       A  tithe  of  the  exquisite  pain 
That  is  throbbing  and  tingling  within  me 
As  I  yearn  for  her  presence  again. 

Ah  the  world  would  hear  me  weeping, 
And  mingle  its  tears  with  mine, 

And  its  heart  would  break  at  each  teardrop, 
And  bleed  with  a  pity  divine. 

But  I  cannot  speak  for  grieving, 
And  a  dumb  prayer  for  relief 

From  the  endless  burden  of  waiting 
Is  the  only  solace  of  grief, 

For  the  heart  cannot  share  its  burdens, 
But  must  bear  them  forever  alone, 

And  dumbly  break  like  the  pitcher 

That  falls  on  the  well's  curb-stone. 


114 


THY   BREASTS   ARE   TWIN 
WHITE    LILIES. 


'"THY  breasts  are  twin  white  lilies 
*•     That  bloom  immaculate  ! 
Thy  lips  are  sister  roses 

In  blood-red  virgin  state  ! 
Thine  eyes  are  linked  stars 

In  measureless  blue  deeps  ! 
Thy  hair,  a  brooding  night, 

Above  the  lilies  sleeps  ! 

I  lie  amid  the  lilies 

And  rest  as  calm  as  death, 
And  the  roses  kiss  my  brow 

With  their  attar  laden  breath, 
And  the  stars  from  out  their  azure 

Flood  all  my  soul  with  light, 
And  o'er  my  throbbing  temples 

Falls  a  cataract  of  night. 


"5 


REST,   REST  THEE,   SAD 
HEART! 

(To    MlSS    F.    H ,    ON    THE     DEATH    OF     HER    MOTHER). 


R 


EST,  rest  thee,  sad  heart 

That  art  throbbing  in  exquisite  agony  ! 
Rest,  rest  thee,  O  fond  heart 

That  art  crushed  by  pitiless  destiny  ! 
O  weep,  but  rest  thee,  sad  heart, 
Or  thou  must  break  ! 

Rest,  rest,  wounded  heart, 

In  the  valley  of  shadows  dumb  repining  ! 
Rest,  rest  thee,  O  fond  heart 

Like  Death  on  the  ruins  of  Love  reclin 
ing  ! 

O  weep,  and  rest  thee,  sad  heart, 
Or  voiceless  break ! 


116 


REST,    REST    THEE,    SAD    HEART  ! 


Rest,  rest,  troubled  heart, 

For  the  clouds,  though  dark,  have  a  silver 

lining  1 
Rest,  rest  thee,  O  fond  heart, 

In  the  night  of  the  valley  the  stars  are 

still  shining  1 

O  weep,  but  rest  thee,  sad  heart, 
Or  thou  must  break  ! 

Rest,  rest,  lonely  heart, 

Though  the  Spoiler  has  passed,  there  is 

love  yet  remaining  I 
Rest,  rest  thee,  O  fond  heart, 

There  are  hearts  that   are   yearning  to 

still  thy  complaining  ! 
O  weep,  and  rest  thee,  sad  heart, 
Or  coldly  break  ! 

Rest,  rest  thee,  sad  heart, 

O  let  not  thy  sensitive  spirit  deceive  thee  ! 
Rest,  rest  thee,  O  fond  heart, 

O  refuse   not   the  love   that   our   hearts 

ache  to  give  thee  ! 
O  weep!     Love  rest  thee,  sad  heart, 
Or  ours  will  break  ! 


117 


TO   A   RISING   STAR. 


DEAUTIFUL  Star  that  shlnest  on  me 

Out  of  thy  East  all  gloriously 
Lift  me  out  of  myself  to  thee  ! 

Thou  art  but  a  star,  and  less  than  me 

Who  am  greater  than  all  things  else  that  be 

On  earth,  or  in  heaven,  or  under  the  sea ! 

I  know  thou  art  dust  and  of  little  worth — 
A  glittering  waste,  a  lifeless  dearth — • 
As  dull  and  dead  as  this  bulky  earth ! 


118 


TO    A    RISING    STAR. 


I  know  them  risest,  a  beautiful  slave 
Compelled  and  scourged  from  the  Eastern  wave 
Though  hung  with  jewels  from  Ocean's  cave  ! 

While  I  am  not  dust,  nor  of  little  worth, 
God's  breath  informed  me,  and  gave  me  birth, 
And  made  me  master  of  heaven  and  earth! 

Nor  am  I  a  slave  of  necessity, 

I  am  God's  right  hand  for  Eternity, 

I  think  and  create  and  am  greatly  free  ! 

Yet,  beautiful  Star,  shine  down  on  me 
Out  of  thy  east,  all  gloriously, 
And  lift  me  out  of  myself  to  thee  ! 


119 


ESTRANGEHENT. 


SHE  looks  a  scorn  that  is  far  too  fine 
To  disfigure  her  lips  with  a  sinister  curve, 
And  she  hides  her  heart  in  its  virgin  shrine 
With  an  ostentation  of  woman's  reserve. 

She  is  hurt,  she  says,  by  my  cold  neglect, 
But  vows,  as  she  tosses  back  my  ring, 

To  prove  that  a  woman's  self-respect 
Can  overlive  so  slight  a  thing. 

Then  her  pride  breaks  down  to  a  tender  mood, 
In  a  flood  of  tears  and  a  gust  of  sighs, 

And  she  says  she  is  dying  in  widowhood, 

And  will  soon  be  at  rest  where  her  mother 
lies. 


I2O 


ESTRANGEMENT. 


I  laugh  at  her  tears  and  chide  her  heart, — 
A  brute,  to  laugh  at  a  woman  vexed ! — 

And  talk  of  travels  and  letters  and  art, 

And  the  novel  that  Scribners  publish  next. 

It  is  over  now.     She  calls  me  too  coarse 
To  sympathise  with  a  woman's  life. 

She  is  glad  that  her  fates  have  done  no  worse, 
But  spared  her  the  curse  of  being  my  wife. 

We  meet  down  town,  but  we  never  speak. 

She  floats  in  a  martyr's  atmosphere, 
And  her  spirit  is  all  too  fine  to  seek 

A  smile  from  the  haughtiest  cavalier. 

Then  she  tosses  her  head  in  matronly  pride 
And  walks  with  her  richest  Juno  gait, 

To  hint  that  the  nuptial  state  denied 

Was  the  blindest  grossest  blunder  of  fate. 


131 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


She  prays  that  a  curse  to  my  life  may  cling, 

Or  at  least  some  blighting   plague   might 
take  me, 

Though  she  once  had  vowed  on  her  trothal  ring 
Never  in  life  or  death  to  forsake  me. 

We  loved, — or  foolishly  dreamed  it  was  so, — 
In  the  flush  and  the  blush  of  youth's  heydey, 

But  larger  loves  must  the  lesser  outgrow,— 
Well !  such  tragedies  happen  every  day  ! 

But  the  saddest  of  tragedies  comes  before, 

When  lips  are  touched  and  low  words  spoken 

That  bind  young  hearts  for  the  evermore 
Only  to  sever,  crushed  and  broken. 

But  her  heart  is  not  broken,  her  wine  is  not  draff, 
She  will  live  to  smile  at  each  foolish  sigh. 

And  I — that  resigned  such  a  prize — I  can  laugh. 
We  were  simply  mistaken  then,Phillis  and  I. 


122 


O'ER  MY   HEART  IN  ITS 
DREAMING. 

¥ 

/'"VER  my  heart  in  its  dreaming  the  swift  tides 
^— '  of  feeling 

Like  the  flood-tides  of  ocean  come  surging 

and  sweeping, 

And  their  melody  oft  brings  the  balsam  of  heal 
ing, 

And  their  turbulence   often  the  marah  of 
weeping. 

Floating  wide  on  those  mystical  tides  of  emotion 
Old  memories  like  tangles  of  sea-weed  are 

drifting, 
And  hopes  that  like  gallant  ships  breasted  Life's 

ocean 

Toss  a  wreck  on  the   surge   in   its  sinking 
and  lifting. 


123 


SOCIAL   TRAGEDIES. 


Sweetest  dreams  float  becalmed  in   the  tropics 

of  being 
On  a  wide  surgeless   sea  idly   rolling   and 

rocking, 
Where  rich  islands  of  purple  are  dropped  within 

seeing 

By    the    mirage    of    phantasy    luring    and 
mocking. 

Rude  passions  like  storms  o'er  the  wild  waters 

dashing 
Drive  shoreward  like  driftwood  the  white 

craft  of  pleasures 
And   plunge   on   gray  rocks   with   a   horror  of 

crashing 

Rich     argosies    freighted    with    life-giving 
treasures. 

But  faith  rides  at  anchor  in  havens  of  blessing, 

Calmly  rocking  above  her  invisible  moorings, 

While   loves   that  bore  messages  fraught   with 

caressing 

Like  gay  birds  return   from  their  airy  de- 
tourings. 


124 


O'ER    MY    HEART    IN    ITS    DREAMING. 


Ah  my  heart,  in  thy  dreaming,  the  swift  tides 

of  feeling 
Like  the  flood-tides  of  ocean  come  surging 

and  sweeping! 

And  their  melody  oft  brings  the  balsam  of  heal 
ing, 

Though  their  turbulence   often   the  marah 
of  weeping  1 


"LOVE   AND   WINE.' 


A  A  Y  Goethe  sings  of  love  and  wine, 

My  Lessing  sings  of  wine  and  love, 
My  muse  is  something  more  divine  ; 
She  bids  my  lips  forego  the  wine 
For  double  draughts  of  nectared  love. 

Sing  on,  my  Goethe,  love,  and  wine, 
Sing  on,  my  Lessing,  wine  and  love, 
My  lips  refuse  your  Rhenish  wine 
But  claim  the  kisses  doubly  mine 
And  doubled  all  the  gifts  of  love. 


126 


MY   MUSE. 


"  T^HE  god  that  touched  my  lips  with  song, 
That  fed  my  soul  with  passions  strong 

Is  dead  ! 
The  Muse  that  comforted  me  long 

Is  fled ! 

The  radiant  days  of  youth  are  spent ! " 
I  murmured  full  of  discontent. 

And  then  I  looked  into  thine  eyes, 
As  clear  and  deep  as  southern  skies 

Aglow  ! — 
My  Italy ! — My  Paradise  ! — 

And  lo  ! 

The  radiant  days  I  lately  mourned, — 
The  dream, — the  Daemon, — all  returned  ! 


127 


THE   LIGHT  OF  MY   LIFE* 


T  IGHT  of  my  life,  my  babe, 

With  the  laughter  on  thy  lips, 

With  thy  restless  dimpled  feet, 
And  thy  rosy  finger-tips. 

Whence  does  the  brightness  come 
That  glows  in  thy  dusky  eyes, 

As  they  welcome  my  home-coming  glad 
With  a  look  of  sweet  surprise, 


*  Written  by  Mr».  Clara  Harwood-Scholl. 
128 


THE    LIGHT   OF    MY    LIFE. 


Or  gaze  with  a  startled  wonder 

At  the  common  things  of  earth, 

Not'knowing  that  thy  treasures 
Are  all  so  little  worth  ? 

Yet  wiser  than  thine  elders 
Who  treasure  only  gold, 

Thy  little  world  is  gladdened 
With  riches  manifold 

Of  toy  and  leaf  and  blossom 
To  which  a  grateful  heart 

Adds  double  worth  and  blessing 
That  naught  else  can  impart. 

Wee  image  of  thy  father, 

Hast  thou  his  soul  within, 

A  heart  like  his,  still  yearning 
From  every  source  to  win 


129 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Its  meed  of  truth  and  honor, 

Its  wealth  of  word  and  deed, 

To  fashion  for  thy  guidance 
A  broad  and  sunny  creed, 

That  shall  leave  the  soul  unfettered 
To  grow  with  each  new  thought 

That  comes  with  Time's  swift  changes 
Or  by  the  heart  is  sought ! 

Thou  tiny  elfin  maiden, 

Come  nestle  close  and  warm 
On  the  heart  that  loves  thee  best 

Of  all  in  this  world  of  storm, 

Of  sunshine,  pain  and  gladness  ! 

Oh  may  the  garnered  years 
Bring  richest  store  of  blessing 

To  banish  all  thy  tears  ! 


130 


H  f)andful  of  Sonnets. 


ALL   IN   ALL. 

T  need  not  fear  to  trust  thee  all  in  all, 
So  pure,  so  gentle,  and  so  nobly  true, 
Thou  child  of  solitudes  !  Thy  spirit  drew 
Its  richness  from  the  silences  that  fall 
With  calm  and  sweetness  on  the  troubled  heart 
Thou  wert  not  nurst  amid  the  glare  of  lamps 
A    brilliant    show,  which   the  gay   worldling 

stamps 

A  social  queen.     Thine  is  the  better  part 
That  naught  can  take  away,  true  womanhood 
Whose  effluence  as  the  soft  rays  that  fall 
From  cloudless  heavens  and  a  night  of  stars, 
Silvering   the  dusk,  makes   all   things  fair    and 

good  : 

For  this  I  learned  to  trust  thee  all  in  all, 
And  faith  the  gate-way  of  all  good  unbars. 


GREETING. 

\\  7HERE  shall  I  greet  thee,  Love  ?  In  crowded 

ways 

With  throngs  whose  idle  and  incurious  eyes 

Would  startle  into  quick  and  cold  surprise 

And  quench  sweet  love  with  their  rude  heartless 

gaze  ? 
Nay,  rather  in  some  silence  let  us  meet 

Where  the  mute  welcome  of  glad  tears  may  be 
And  lips  may  meet  in  love's  sweet  privacy 
Unshamed  and  pure  ;  in  some  lone  loved  retreat 
Where  all  chaste  hopes  unsilenced  may  be  told 
And  vows  replighted  speed  the  hours  apace  ; 
Wrhere  arms   that   waited   long,  at  length  may 

fold, 

Thy  yielding  bosom  in  their  warm  embrace 
Nor  heed  the  world's  conventions  false  and  cold 
While  love's  sweet  breath  is  dewing  neck  and 
face. 


132 


BETROTHAL. 

Y  pure  one,  my  White   Lily,  whose  chaste 


Drank  morning  dew,  where  life's  cool  shadows 
brood  ! 

My  perfect  flower  of  noble  womanhood  ! 
From  out  thy  wanton  sisterhood,  where  dips 
With  touch  promiscuous  the  lustful  bee 

Just  prizing  loveliness  for  what  it  yields 

When  rifled  of  the  treasure  that  it  shields, 
I  chose  thee,  spotless  one,  to  cherish  thee 
Less  for  ephemeral  uses  than  to  fill 

Life  with  perennial  sweetness.     Love,  place 
thou 

With  thy  pure  lips  a  seal  upon  my  brow 
To  keep  my  thoughts  from  straying  into  ill  I 

Chasten  my  soul  till  life's  realities 

Accord  with  thy  soul's  idealities  ! 


LINCOLN    PARK,    Storm. 


A  GAIN  the  light  spray  dashing  from  the  Lake, 
Wets  all  the  level  pavement  by  the  beach 
And  beats,  wind-driven,  in  the  face  of  each 
A  gusty  welcome  to  the  merry-make 
Of  wave  and  storm.     Again  the  wash  and  swish 
With  undertones  of  thunder  and  low  moans 
That  mock,  like  echo  faint,  old  Ocean's  tones 
When  tumbling  on  his  rocks  with  heathenish 
Wild  mirth  and  daring,  comes  from  the  far  deep, 
And  silver  wave-crests  self-dissolving  leap 
To  clasp  the  errant  winds  in  their  mad  chase, 
But  slip  back  thwarted  from  the  wet  embrace 
With  passion-quenched  arms  to  liquid  death 
Till  quickened  by  the  Storm-king's  lusty  breath. 


LINCOLN    PARK. 


II 

This  is  the  day,  and  these  the  sounds  and  sights 
That  smote  upon  our  senses,  one  sweet  morn, 
With  healing,  for  our  eyes  and  hearts  were 

worn, 

Art-dazzled  by  the  myriad  blinding  lights 
Of  the  White  City.     We  had  sped  away 

Behind  the  clattering  hoofs  of  an  ebon  span 
That  beat  rude  music  as  they  lightly  ran 
Along  the  pavement  stones  in  arduous  play. 
I  hear  it  yet.     The  moan  of  breakers  steals 
Mingled  with  hoof-beats  and  the  roll  of  wheels 
Into  my  willing  ear.     Admiring  cries 
Burst  from  thy  lips,  when  the  wild  waters  rise 
With  sudden  leap  above  the  rock-curbed  shore 
And  plunge  back  head-long  with  unwonted  roar. 


SOCIAL    TRAGEDIES. 


Ill 

And  fragments  of  forgotten  verse,  perforce, 
First  sung  by  some  old  lover  of  the  seas 
Utter  themselves  with  song's  impulsive  ease 
From    half  unconscious   lips,   from   their    deep 

source 
In  labyrinthine  memory  compelled 

By  the  tumultuous  beauty,  and  the  wild 
Storm-tossed    magnificence.      Thine    eyelids 

smiled, 

And  all  thy  being  rose.  Glad  I  beheld 
The  light  of  thy  sweet  eyes,  and  glad  I  heard 
The  music  of  thy  voice,  and  drunk  each  word 
With  eager  spirit  in.     I  hear  thee  still. 
Laugh  still,  sweet  eyes,  like  two  fair  stars  until 
Ye  laugh  again  to  mine  !  Sing  on,  sweet  lips, 
Till  dearer  Silence,  Love's  last  song  outstrips  ! 


136 


SEPARATION. 

DAY  follows  lingering  day,  on,  on,  forever, 
And  I  from  out  my  study's  cheerless  prison 
Deep  yearning,  gaze  into  each  day  new  risen 
And  stretch  my  arms  to  thee,  yet  clasp  thee 

never ! 

How  long — how  long  —  O  weary,  weary  hours 
Must  I  this  voiceless  separation  bear  ? 
How    long  —  how    long,    must    I    withstand 

despair 

By  memory's  sweet  but  evanescent  powers  ? 
These  lips,  untouched  by  thine,  grow  strangely 

dumb, 
These  hands,\inclasped  by  thine,  their  cunning 

lose, 
This  heart  throbs  weak,  so  severed  from  its 

mate. 

Once  more,  Beloved,  once  more  bid  me  come  ! 
I  dare  not  come  to  thee  if  thou  refuse, 

Yet  O  with  what  strong  yearning  do  I  wait ! 


IN   THE   SHADOWS. 

T^vEAR  patient  woman,  with  thy  heart  of  gold, 
Strong  burden-bearer  through  the  lingering 

years, 

Whom  bootless  grief  doth  often  force  to  tears 
But  ne'er  to  weak  complainings,  manifold 
Rich  graces  wait  upon  thee  !  Thou  dost  hold 
Thyself  insphered  in  household  ways  obscure, 
An  angel  of  mercy  whom  four  walls  immure 
To  quiet  ministerings,  yet,  behold  ! 
To  those  four  walls  of  pain,  with  beautiful  feet 
The  Presence  comes,  and  thou  art  grown   more 

sweet 

And  tender  and  more  strong.   And  larger  thought 
Comes  with  the  visitation,  and  hath  brought 
The  Vision  Beautiful  —  the  soul's  ideal, 
To  woo  thee  into  life's  divinest  real. 


138 


BEYOND  THE   SHADOWS. 

\  I  TE  know  not  half  the  noble  worth  of  life 
Till  pallid  lips,  half-parted  with  the  smile 
That  Death  emmarbled  as  he  passed,  the 
while 

Send  deathless  greetings  from  beyond  the  strife  ! 
We  know  not  half  the  worth  of  the  warm  blood 
That  pulses  in  us,  till  those  hearts  are  stilled 
Whose  blameless  love,  and  passionate  yearn 
ing  filled 

Our  veins  to  bursting  with  the  joyous  flood  ! 
Bereft,  we  stand,  the  flower  of  all  Time, 

The  conscious  fruitage  of  ancestral  worth  ! 
Her  life,  grown  rich,  tides  on  in  thee  sublime 
And    though   her  dust  be  welcomed  to   the 

earth 

Her  spirit  dwells  in  thee,  my  faithful  One  ! 
I'll  love  and  cherish  both  in  thee  alone  ! 


139 


A  GOLDEN   DAY. 

'"PHRICE  happy   Love  of  mine,  this  Golden 

Day, 

Most  precious  in  the  heart's  whole  calendar, 
Has  filled  Life's  cup  brim  full.    The  sacred 

jar 

Of  wine  with  mint  and  honey  mingled,  nay 
The  soul's  own  chalice,  brimmed  with  nectar,  lay 
Upon  my  purple  lips  —  for  naught  did  mar 
The  bliss  of  that  one  draught,  —  and  every 

scar 

Upon  my  soul  was  healed  and  fled  away. 
Thrice  happy  Golden  Day,  on  such  as  thou, 
'Twere  happy  to  be  born,  'twere  blest  to  die, 

'Tis  heaven  to  live,  intense,  intoxicate, 
The  god  within  grown  radiant  on  the  brow, 
Thrilling  the  brain  and  beaming  in  the  eye, — 
Best   Love,   blest  Love,  I    thank   thee  for 
this  date ! 


140 


TIME   HARKS    HER    FLIGHT. 


nniME  marks  her  flight  with   roses  and  with 
snows. 

Her  Junes  and  her  Decembers  come  and  go 
In  swift  mutation,  like  the  ebb  and  flow 
That  daily  breaks  old  Ocean's  wide  repose. 
To-day  we  wreathe  a  garland  of  wild  roses 
To  crown  at  festival  a  maiden  queen, 
To-morrow  on  her  ample  brow  serene 
The  gathered  snow  of  four-score  years  reposes  ! 
We  lisp  till  manhood's  prime  upon  us  steals, 
Then  forge  our  mightiest  aims  on   life's  last 

verge. 

Alas  !  It  were  a  thought  too  deep  for  tears, 
If  Death,  the  Victor,  brake  the  living  seals 
Of  soul,  and  all  these  aims  that  onward  urge, 
Rest   unfulfilled     throughout    the    eternal 
years  ! 


141 


flY    BARD. 

T  would  not  have  thee  like  to  other  bards, 
To  sing  aloof  from  me  in  far  blue  heights 
A  mystic  strain  of  iris-hued  delights, 
Compelling  souls  to  leap  up  heavenwards. 
I'd  have  thee  lowlier,  nearer  to  the  swards 
That  vault  in  buried  loves,  or  kiss  the  feet 
Of  joyous  childhood,  ere  it  runs  to  meet, 
Full-shod,  Life's  struggles  and  its  stern  rewards. 
I  would  not  have  thee  like  a  mountain  peak, 
Majestic,    cold,     oak-girdled,     capped     with 

snows. 

Be  thou  my  stately  beech-wood,  full  of  ease, 
A  shelter  from  Life's  heat,  where  I  may  seek 
The  living  brook  that  gurgles  and  o'erflows. 
There,  'mid  the  flowers,  I'll  drink  and  be 
at  peace. 


142 


THE  LIGHT-BEARER  OF  LIBERTY, 

By  J.  W.  SCROLL, 

Author  of  "SOCIAL  TRAGEDIES." 


"THE  LIGHT -BEARER  OF  LIBERTY"  has 
not  a  dull  line  from  cover  to  cover.  It 
is  full  of  genuine  poetic  fire.  It  is  manly, 
bold,  but  does  not  stoop  to  meanness 
anywhere.  It  contains  a  splendid  tribute 
to  womanhood,  a  fine  appeal  for  a  happier 
childhood,  an  optimistic  outlook  upon 
the  race.  It  is  democratic.  —  American. 

HANDSOME  CLOTH   BINDING,    I2mo,   EMBOSSED 
COVERS,  $1.00. 

Sent  prepaid  upon  receipt  of  price,  or  can  be  secured  at  any 
leading  book  store. 


PERSONAL    COMMENT. 

COL.  MARK  L.  DEMOTTE,  Dean  of  the 
Northern  Ind.  Law  School,  Valparaiso,  Ind.  — 
"  We  have  read  and  commented,  and  commented 
and  read,  and  agree  that  the  book  is  one  of  rare 
poetical  merit.  It  abounds  with  poetical 
thought  expressed  in  poetical  language,  and 
with  a  rhyme  and  rhythm  that  makes  it  delight 
ful  reading." 


REV.  R.  A.  WHITE,  Stewart  Ave.  Universa- 
list  Church,  Chicago,  III.  — "  The  thought  is 
courageous  and  true.  The  poetic  form  excellent. 
It  is  a  brave  and  interesting  volume  of  poems, 
and  I  am  sure  it  will  do  much  good." 


REV.  HUNTLY  LLOYD,  Southold,  L.  I.  — 
"  The  verses  are  deliciously  simple  and  sweet, 
and  there  is  a  smoothness  of  rhythm  and  cor 
rectness  of  rhyme  that  in  these  days  is  refresh 
ing.  I  trust  that  this  volume  will  be  a  forerun 
ner  of  still  as  sweet  streams  that  shall  flow  from 
the  same  fount  of  Parnassus." 

V 

MRS.  ROBERT  G.  INGERSOLL  (to 
author). —  "  I  thank  you  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart  for  the  grand  tribute  to  my  husband 
in  the  poem  'THE  LIGHT-BEARER  OF  LIBERTY.'" 

WWW 

VOICE  OF    THE   PRESS. 


On  reading  the  book,  one  feels  something  as 
Desdemona  felt  when  listening  to  the  Moor's 
story.  —  Commercial  Appeal,  Memphis. 

w 

The  author,  giving  a  reason  for  the  existence 
of  the  book,  shows  that  he  has  something  to 


say  to  the  public.  He  has  a  crack  at  religion 
and  lets  the  reader  know  he  is  a  great  admirer 
of  Col.  Ingersoll.  In  short,  he  is  the  right  sort 
of  a  man  to  make  a  good  poet  and  his  verse  has 
a  good  ring.  — Bookseller  and  Newsman. 

¥ 

Many  of  the  poems,  which  are  a  humble  con 
tribution  to  the  cause  for  which  the  best  blood 
was  spilled  in  all  ages,  and  for  which  oblioquy 
and  hissing  are  borne  now,  contain  vigorous 
passages  full  of  intense  earnestness,  genius,  and 
poetic  fire.  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

¥ 

While  one  may  take  the  liberty  to  dissent  from 
some  of  the  20  dogmatic  propositions  laid  down 
in  the  author's  preface,  one  may  find  many 
mellow  lines  in  the  verse  pages.  —  Globe,  Boston. 

¥ 

The  movement  of  the  poems  is  stirring,  the 
diction  clear  and  vigorous.  The  writer  ap 
proaches  the  problems  of  life  with  a  seriousness 
and  an  underlying  reverence.  —  Cumulation 
Book  Index. 

¥ 

Mr.  Scholl  is  a  man  with  poetic  instincts,  who 
has  revolted  from  the  dogmas  of  ancient  creeds, 
and  beat  his  way  out  into  a  faith  more  in  accord 
with  science  and  reason.  —  Christian  Register, 
Boston. 


All  the  poems  have  the  same  forceful  rhetoric 
and  vivid  picturesqueness.  —  Globe-Democrat, 
St.  Louis. 

w 

The  title  poem  is  well  constructed  and 
possesses  power  with  many  fine  fancies.  — 
Transctipt,  Portland,  Me. 


The  author  seems  inspired  with  intense  ad 
miration  for  the  late  Col.  Ingersoll.  —  Spy, 
Worcester,  Mass. 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


PttlNTED  IN  U    6 


A       r\ i  rl  r\  " "'" '' 


